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In Good Company: A conversation with debut author Shannon Sanders

Hannah Grieco, editor-in-chief of the ASP Bulletin, interviews author Shannon Sanders about her exciting new short story collection Company, from Graywolf Press

 

Hannah Grieco: Tell us about Company!

Shannon Sanders: Company is a collection of thirteen linked short stories, most of them centered on the members of one multigenerational Black family. The stories tackle lots of different subjects, but they share a common element: Each one involves an interaction between a guest and a host. (Hence the title!) The stories jump around to center different protagonists, but—and this is what I love most about linked collections—a character you've gotten to know in one context is likely to reappear on the fringes of another character's story.

 

HG: Why a short story collection vs a novel? What do you love about the short story form?

SS: I'm debuting with a short story collection because for a period of several years, short stories were what I was writing—and pretty compulsively at that! I was obsessed with the idea of trying to capture a particular scene or moment or feeling and imbue it with meaning within the limits of the short story frame. Before I had kids (meaning I had a lot more time for my mind to wander), short story ideas kept coming to me, and it was really satisfying to be able to put them on paper. Some of the stories I wrote in only one or two sittings. I got massively lucky in that my agent, Reiko Davis, believes in short stories and was excited to seek a home for these ones without pressuring me to try to write a novel.

That said, I love novels too—I was raised on them—and am hard at work on my first one!

 

HG: This collection is so beautifully linked, with characters (and their needs) intersecting throughout. Was that hard to pull off? How did you plan and organize the collection? Was ordering the stories difficult?

SS: Thank you for those lovely compliments! I will be honest: I think linked short stories are easier in many ways. To take a step back (I promise it will make sense), some of my earliest writing efforts were in teenage fanfiction, which I think is a great learning experience because so much of the material is pre-cut and the writer doesn't have to worry so much about building the world from scratch. It leaves a lot more room to play and experiment. When I was writing fanfic in high school, I was able to get a lot of good story-shaping and sentence-level practice, because I already understood the characters and the setting so well.

In much the same way, the more of these stories I wrote, the deeper and realer the world became. By the time I was putting the finishing touches on the collection, every character in the book felt human to me. I was no longer guessing what they would do or say; I knew. I understood how they would intersect because we'd spent so much time together already.

Ordering the stories felt daunting at first (because I knew it was important to get it right), but in the end they ordered themselves. I wanted the reader to have a particular experience of discovering these characters and then growing to understand each one better as the perspective shifted. Though I hear that lots of readers skip around when they read collections anyway!

 

HG: Can you talk a little more about that organization process? Was there a timeline in your head? How did you go about deciding what story went where?

SS: Ordering the pieces was not nearly as complicated as I had worried it would be! My agent and my editor were fairly decided that the PEN-prizewinning story should go first; I felt that a story that ends on a hopeful note should go last. I took a wonderful One Story class with Patrick Ryan in which he discussed ordering collections, and I had learned a few tricks about positioning some of the heavy-hitting stories (in my cases, the longer, more exposition-rich ones) to hold reader attention. And then finally, I tried to make the reader experience fun and revelatory wherever I could! So that, for example, a reader who remembered the mention of Cy Collins in the second story (in which he's just a voice on the telephone) would be excited to catch up with him ten years later toward the end of the book in the story of which he's the star.

 

HG: When did you begin to realize that you were writing a collection, vs just a story or two with related characters? What was your writing process like, once you decided to write an entire book this way?

SS: I have a wonderful friend, Jen Buxton Haupt, who was my first-ever workshop leader and writing teacher. She read my first few workshop stories, most of which were linked, and started publicly telling people that I was working on a book. I think that's probably what planted the seed! I kept adding stories to the same linked universe for years—not because I thought I was working on a book, but because I found that it was so easy to generate material that way! Every time I introduced a peripheral character in a story, I found that I was really excited to explore that character further, give them even more focused attention. As an example, the first story in the collection ("The Good, Good Men"), which is also one of the first ones I wrote chronologically, features a character named Lela. Shortly after I wrote that one, I found that I wanted to delve into Lela's childhood, so I wrote another story, which ended up being the title story and an anchor to the collection.

I wrote about four of the stories after connecting with my agent, who felt there should be a few more stories touching on a little bit of additional material. The better I knew the characters, the easier the stories were to write! So the ones that came toward the end of the process (which are interspersed throughout the book) felt less like generating new material and more like filling in gaps.

 

HG: Were there any stories you cut from the collection? Why?

SS: No, but I did have to make a couple of tough decisions about not including stories that were a little bit too resonant with others in the collection. I think a lot of writers find ourselves doing accidental rewrites—coming up with the same story in different ways because we're obsessed or because we feel we left some stone unturned last time! That happened to me a couple of times, and I knew I had to keep the collection tight and succinct.

 

HG: What was the hardest story to finish, and why? Were there any stories you almost gave up on?

SS: I don't want to suggest that I'm an effortless writer, but I did not have any pulling-teeth experiences while writing this book! But I did have to do a little bit of story surgery on two of the shorter pieces in the collection: "Rule Number One" and "Three Guests." They were, at one point, a single story overloaded with an awkward combination of backstory and forward movement. My editor very gently coached me to streamline the story, but I really wanted to keep most of the material. So I ended splitting up the paragraphs (non-sequentially) and creating two stories, then suturing on a little bit of extra tissue for polish. (It sounds gross! I hope no one perceives it in the reading.)

 

HG: For those of us who also write stories vs longer works: How did you go from writing for literary journals to getting an agent and landing Graywolf?

SS: In early 2020, my debut short story "The Good, Good Men" won a PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers. Winning that award (for which I had asked Puerto del Sol to nominate me—writers, don't be shy about doing this!!) truly changed everything for me. Reiko (who would eventually become my agent) follows those awards; after she read my story, she found my other work online (writers, keep your website up to date!!) and reached out to me. To my absolute delight, she was excited about trying to sell a short story collection and had some great ideas about where to do so.

I was prepared for the possibility of multiple submission rounds, but it went to auction almost immediately and I fell in love with Graywolf's vision for it.

Shannon Sanders 2013; Photo: David F. Choy

Shannon Sanders lives and works near Washington, DC. Her fiction has appeared in One StoryElectric Literature, Joyland, TriQuarterly, and elsewhere, and was a 2020 winner of the PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers.

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FEATURED STORY: How to Fly Away | Caroljean Gavin

How to Fly Away

Wake up just before dawn. Check your phone the night before to see what time the sun is scheduled to rise. Don’t set your alarm. You don’t want your husband to wake up at the chimes. Think to yourself “Wake up at five, wake up at five, wake up at five…” until you fall asleep and wake up at five, amazed but not surprised. Roll out of bed carefully. Do not bother with extra clothes or foot coverings. You won’t need them. Soon. You know you won’t need them soon.

Leave out the front door, silently, locking it behind you. Wade out through the flowers, through the wet grass that’s been moaning for a mowing. Close your eyes. Feel the end of night on your face. Hear the trees flapping their hands in the breeze. See the lightening. Behind your eyes. Keep your eyes closed. You are in the midst of a waking-up song. The chitters, cheeps, peeps, trills. Taste the opening of your throat. Do not open your mouth. Keep the song. You don’t want the neighborhood to hear what you’re becoming, and besides, you don’t know the language yet. You don’t know your own
language yet.

Your body is changing. Each feather takes root in your skin and sprouts into a spreading softness. Your bones, too, are hollowing out. You have never felt this delicate. You steady your talons in the ground, and you take a little hop. The hop pulls you up, up. Why would you try to stop something that feels so good, that feels so right? Your eyes open, they do not break, or pop, or burst open. They simply open and rejoice.

You wheel around your house for a while. You hear your son rising, singing songs to himself, tossing cars around his room. You make several passes across his window. He is safe. Nothing will harm him in there. Your husband is still sleeping, he will wake up soon enough.

And when your husband wakes up, he will be confused you aren’t there, he will call your phone, he will hear your phone buzzing on the nightstand, he will figure you just went out for a run, he will take care of your son, he will start to get worried as the day goes on. He will call your friends, your family.

You will be back. You are not leaving them forever. You will be back in time for dinner. You will weigh down your body with cutlery, and you will pull the feathers out of your skin. You will pick them up something for dinner. You will come up with a reason that is a surprise. You would never, never, ever leave your family forever, only life happened so fast, and you never got to soar over the ocean. Never got a chance to dip a wing as a whale spouted. Never got to perch on the mast of a boat. You never had the chance to feel clouds disappear into your eyes. You never had the chance to see the horizon in all directions. You push yourself up higher, higher, higher, and this time you choose your wind.

Caroljean Gavin

Caroljean Gavin's work has appeared in places such as Milk Candy Review, Fractured, New World Writing, Best Small Fictions, and X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine. She’s the author of Shards of a Stained-Glass Moving Picture Fairytale (Selcouth Station Press). She's on Twitter:@caroljeangavin

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Abandon | Katherine Gekker

Abandon

 

Katherine Gekker

Katherine Gekker is the author of In Search of Warm Breathing Things (Glass Lyre Press). She serves as Delmarva Review's Poetry Assistant Editor. Her poetry has appeared in Little Patuxent Review, Broadkill Review, and elsewhere. Gekker was born in Washington, DC. In 1974, she founded a commercial printing company and sold it 31 years later. She lives with her wife in Arlington, Virginia, and Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.

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Invisible Man (Two Views) | MEH

Invisible Man (Two Views)

I.

I am not a spook, nor ectoplasm.
I am flesh and bone. fiber and liquids.
a mind. I understand people see me
like bodiless heads in circus sideshows
surrounded by hard, distorting glass.
when they approach they see figments
of their imagination. my epidermis:
a peculiar disposition, a matter
of construction. a figure in a nightmare
the sleeper tries—with all his strength—
to destroy. let me confess, it's seldom
successful.

II.

I am invisible. a spook who haunted
your Hollywood movie. invisible
because people refuse to see. they see
only my surroundings—everything,
anything except me. no invisibility
is an accident. invisibility occurs
because eyes look through. I am
not complaining, nor protesting.
it is advantageous to be unseen (though
it is wearing on the nerves to doubt
if you really exist, whether you are
a phantom). say—out of resentment—
you ache to convince yourself you do exist,
with fists make them recognize you. alas,
it's seldom successful.

 

An erasure poem from Ralph Ellison’s novel Invisible Man by and Glenn Ligon’s painting Invisible Man (Two Views).

MEH

Matthew E. Henry (MEH) is the author of six poetry collections. He is editor-in-chief of The Weight Journal and an associate poetry editor at Pidgeonholes. MEH’s poetry appears or is forthcoming in Cola, The Florida Review, Massachusetts Review, Ninth Letter, Pangyrus, Ploughshares, Shenandoah, and The Worcester Review among others. MEH’s an educator who received his MFA yet continued to spend money he didn’t have completing an MA in theology and a PhD in education. You can find him at www.MEHPoeting.com writing about education, race, religion, and burning oppressive systems to the ground.

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Selfie | Jennifer Keith

Selfie

The starlet’s facial features do the dance
demanded by the camera’s music: Snap.
A girl like that could do it in her sleep:
that look, immortalized in that romance,

the sculptor, carving up some pale ideal
and how he tried to make it love him back.
Miss Monroe’s blank and tired. You can see
she’s done with trying to make that smile look real.

Then Daltrey sang about his precious Lilly
completing the circuit: eyes to brain to hand,
a line a pixel, the billion points of light—
a limbic money shot of willy-nilly.

How many looks attempted, then discarded—
the duck, the hungry sparrow, baby fish,
a sucky little game face breaks the bank,
and stuffs itself with everything it’s started.

Like sugar—wet lips hungry, silent, so
they’re force-fed phalanxes of angry boy
until the psyche chokes. Are you done yet?
A million lonely housewives want to know.

Our man is walking, lonely on a beach,
without a hand in his, no candlelight
or quiet conversation, please, no games—
just eyeliner and implants, waves of bleach.

The truth is terrifying: In no way
is this what was at some point guaranteed—
by dint of dudeness: “Hooter’s type,” long legs,
some alien abduction, swiped away.

Now hand on gun, he’s hardened; resolute.
Be Seen, the billboard says. Be Seen. Be Loved.
The smile in that one photo was for him.
The dissonance enraging, playing cute,

while she is scanning all the sparkly racks
to amp up this and that, and try again.
The mental contact sheet of shots extends
to the atmosphere of Mars, which now attacks.

Consider the distraction: what it took
to blister reels of real life, snagged within
the teeth of the projector, motion stilled—
in hope that he would look, and look, and look.

Jennifer Keith

Jennifer Keith is a web content writer for Johns Hopkins Medicine and plays bass for the rock band Batworth Stone. Her poems have appeared in Sewanee Theological Review, The Nebraska Review, The Free State Review, Fledgling Rag, Unsplendid, Best American Poetry 2015, and elsewhere. Keith received the 2014 John Elsberg poetry prize and in 2021 her poem “Cooper’s Hawk” was a finalist for the Erskine J. Poetry Prize from Smartish Pace. She lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

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the immigrant dream | Ishanee Chanda

the immigrant dream

you and me, together, in a house
that is just small enough to hear us hold our breath.
two tails, eight legs, and a pair of wet noses
running around our knees - not a single child in sight.
two cars in the driveway. a christmas tree touching the ceiling,
always four months into the new year. your hand on my waist
when i am sleeping or cooking breakfast or dancing in the bathroom
before bedtime. my nuzzling your clothes every time you leave the house
for a jug of milk or a midnight snack. gold rings glinting
in the muted light of the moon. a fluttering that lives in our
skin for as long as the sun turns in the sky.

Ishanee Chanda

Ishanee Chanda is a prose writer and poet from Dallas, Texas. She is the author or two books of poetry titled Oh, these walls, they crumble and The Overflow. Additionally, she has been published in the Eckleberg Project, Stoked Words: A Queer Anthology, Z Publishing House’s Emerging Texas Writers, Flypaper Magazine, and Apricity Press. Ishanee currently resides in Washington, D.C. where she works full-time in the field of humanitarian aid and refugee response. You can find her loitering a farmer's market, chasing her cat, and cooking her girlfriend fresh pasta every Tuesday night.

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Alecto | Megan Alpert

Alecto

I.

I wanted the wolves to let me stay
where I was, to let me keep what I had.
If meat lay rotting in the yard, I’d step
around it. If mold grew in the gutters,
I’d breathe the spores. The house’s outer wood
was sad and grey, but inside it was new enough
for furniture. She brought sofas and her own
made table. We had a fireplace and a mantel
with a photograph. But the wolves sent grief
running through the storm drain. They sent rage
that made the housewood warp and bend.
They forced me out from there with nothing
on my back and no guide.      I listened:
voices in the leaves at first, then voices
of the dead and then, finally, voices of the living
ran up my veins like chlorophyll
thickening a stem. They took me
to mines and watersheds.
I breathed. I spread my arms.

II.

I met two men: a half-girl I lost; and a second,
starving and heartsick. He sang me
to my knees, he heard, he loved
the voices in me. The scars on his chest
inked into morning glories and I held fast
to his listening ear at my sternum.
When he grew violent and frightened,
I dimmed their gnash and howl,
staved off the wolves that gathered
in the weak apartment light. The voices
cut out. My breath went out
like a windstruck candle. Rigid-mouthed,
sleepless under the helicopters; the wolves
sent heat, sent visions of my own arms
cut open into pools.      Only because
I’d repelled them. I walked into the woods alone,
the snow a balm to my throat:
spine-bent, following their tracks.
I want to be what I was.

Megan Alpert

Megan Alpert is the author of The Animal at Your Side, which won the Airlie Prize and was a finalist for the National Poetry Series and the Julie Suk Award. Her poems have appeared in Copper Nickel, the Denver Quarterly, Colorado Review, Crab Orchard Review, Verse Daily, and many others. As a journalist, she reported for The Atlantic, Smithsonian, The Guardian, and Foreign Policy.

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Contextualizing a Forest Fire Continually Burning | Jared Beloff

Contextualizing a Forest Fire Continually Burning

after Erika Meitner's "Outside the Frame"

Outside the frame a toppled tree, a burning telephone pole, our wish to call our father who is reading headlines drinking coffee, steam rising from the rim to his face, a pleasant heat. Outside the frame melting asphalt, a sea of tar, friction and tires, a bus sinks into the road’s dark bed before pushing off for the day’s commute. Outside the frame particulate matter helixed in a window’s light, a wheezing refrigerator in an apartment that won’t cool down, a son teaching his mother what wet bulb temperatures are before she changes the subject to describe a new mask for sleep apnea. Outside the frame troubled sleep and orange skies. Outside the frame, brunch across from the park where children are playing, the stacking of spoons, cream gyres in refilled cups of coffee. Outside the frame a television’s light flickers against our walls, tourists running toward waves, aerial views of refugees carpeting boat decks until we are floating above flames to a panorama of char and embers, a ragged orange line across the horizon and we rise to the smoke’s dim curtain, the white sun that burns behind it and we lift higher still, through the thermosphere, sunset-singed clouds, contrails drawing new borders into a map of loss as we catch the sun along the earth’s curve and we realize all this time we’ve been burning together.

Jared Beloff

Jared Beloff is the author of WHO WILL CRADLE YOUR HEAD (ELJ Editions, 2023). He is the editor of the Marvel inspired poetry anthology, Marvelous Verses (Daily Drunk, 2021) and has been a peer-reviewer for Whale Road Review since 2021. His work can be found at Night Heron Barks, Baltimore Review, River Mouth Review, The Shore, Contrary Magazine and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @Read_Instead and his website www.jaredbeloff.com. He is a teacher who lives in Queens, NY with his wife and two daughters.

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HONORABLE MENTION: Mad Libs Sonnet: Portrait of my Father | Tanya Sangpun Thamkruphat

Mad Libs Sonnet: Portrait of My Father

Tanya Sangpun Thamkruphat

Tanya Sangpun Thamkruphat is a Thai-Vietnamese American poet and essayist. She is the author of the poetry chapbooks, Em(body)ment of Wonder (Raine Publishing, 2021) and It Wasn’t a Dream (Fahmidan Publishing & Co., 2022). Her poetry appears in Button Poetry, Honey Literary, The Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. She's a 2023 Kenyon Review alum. You can follow her on Twitter and Instagram at @madamewritelyso.

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THIRD PLACE: The Trees in Dealey Plaza Seemed Distressed | Sarah Carey

The Trees in Dealey Plaza Seemed Distressed

so county arborists trim live oaks on the knoll
where footsteps of a thousand tourists
over half a century compress soil

like buried memory. I was six, in first grade
curling cursive when Kennedy died
and my father arrived at the schoolyard

in our good used Ford, and said,
oh honey, shook his head.
I wish I could say I never looked back

but violence always cuts me down to size.
Some trees remember droughts, conserve
what water comes, a process of abscission,

building reservoir, a stand against
our misremembered dead.
Meanwhile, the arborists aim to reclaim

points of view, with each lopped limb,
strategic prune. Some retrace trajectory of bullet,
as if we could map regeneration, make old new.

Sarah Carey

Sarah Carey is a graduate of the Florida State University creative writing program. Her poems have appeared recently or are forthcoming in Gulf Coast, Five Points, Sugar House Review, Florida Review, Zone 3, Redivider, River Heron Review, Split Rock Review, Atlanta Review and elsewhere. Her book reviews have appeared recently in Salamander, EcoTheo Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and the Los Angeles Review.

Sarah's poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Orison Anthology. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, including Accommodations (2019), winner of the Concrete Wolf Chapbook Award. Her debut full-length collection was a finalist for the 2023 Marsh Hawk Press Poetry Prize and the 2023 Barry Spacks Prize sponsored by Gunpowder Press. Visit her at SarahKCarey.com, Instagram @skcarey1 or on Twitter @SayCarey1.

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