In this interview with Evadne Macedo, author of The 29th Day, Thomas Trofimuk, author of Waiting for Columbus,  Doubting Yourself to the Bone and The 52nd Poem explains how love and a desire for imperfection help him generate stories we want to read!

1. Are there any experiences that you can look back on as being defining moments in your career as a writer of fiction? At what point, did you seriously think of yourself as being a “writer” and did this require some sort of outside validation from a mentor or someone else?

Mostly, it came down to a question posed by a teacher/mentor. She said: You want to be a writer; act like one. So the implied question was, and still is: “What do writers do?

I started writing by writing letters, by corresponding with young women, girls, when I was a young man, a boy. These were the first carefully crafted quasi-narratives. I suppose the first character I created, or attempted to create, was me. The first story; the story of a dreamer, a romantic, an “anything-is-possible” sort of hero inside a not-so-pretty childhood. The “letter” became very important to me. Letters – writing them, and sending them, and receiving them – buttressed an undeveloped sense of worth. It proved to me that I could, at least, move an audience of one. There was a beauty to those letters that doesn’t exist in the instantaneous e-mails of today. I miss letters. I miss waiting for them to arrive. I miss knowing they are in the mail and waiting. I know that I can still write letters, but I rarely do. So, writing letters, which were sometimes love letters, but were mostly, learning-to-love letters (both the young women and myself) is the first writing I did where I could see and feel the effect of my words. It’s where I experienced the potential of my own words. I still have bundles of letters that were the responses to my letters, somewhere in my father’s garage. Bundles of letters wrapped in rubber bands.

After the letters, I started to write small stories. I didn’t really take my stories seriously (they were mostly small flirtations with narrative, small seductions – playful and whimsical) until a teacher in college read one I’d written for her, to cheer her up. Her comments pretty well sealed the deal for me. She handed me back the story and written on it was a strong recommendation for me to quit Journalism school, take a typewriter and go to the mountains and not come back until I had a novel. I didn’t take her advice, not literally. But I’ve been following this advice, in my own way, ever since. In fact, my favourite place to edit is in a little resort next to a hot springs in the mountains – I edited the last two novels I have written there. I took my daughter there for her first time in the mountains, and I recently got married there.

2. I am just starting to navigate between a professional world and the literary world and I would be interested in hearing about how you balance these two identities within the context of your life as a whole. How do people who know you in a professional capacity react to your identity as a novelist?

First, let’s refine your question. I know what you mean by “professional world” but I think writing fiction or poetry is a “profession.” It’s not something a doctor picks up after she retires, or that an accountant does when he retires. (I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been cornered at a party by some guy who wants to tell me about the book he’s gong to write when he retires.) I believe writing is a life-long profession that requires as much dedication and study as any doctor, dentist, lawyer, or accountant. In fact, I like the term “practice.” I have a writing practice. If doctors can have practices, why can’t writers?

It’s not easy, as I’m sure you know, to balance the professional with the literary. I’m at the point now where I think of my business/government writer, editor, speech writer, communications, and analyst stuff as the “work” I do. I think of my creative endeavours as my “career.” One is what I do to pay the bills, feed my family, the other, keeps me sane, and feeds my soul. I know “soul” is a bit of a hackneyed word these days because of all the goddamned Chicken Soup for the Soul books out there, but “soul” is the right word. Writing, for me, is about soul.

My colleagues in the business/government world are very supportive – the ones that know anyway (my new book is not the first thing that comes out of my mouth at a meeting). They are thrilled by my successes. I’m sure some don’t quite understand what it is that I do, how I do it, or when I do it.  And truthfully, most of my colleagues are oblivious – don’t read the book sections or entertainment sections of newspapers, and only read non-fiction (because that way they can read, and learn at the same time).

Time becomes more and more important. Sometimes, I can see that the business/government work I do is ludicrous – that a document is going to be edited and re-written, re-edited and adjusted to the point where it no longer says anything – and then to add insult on top of absurdity, it’s likely going to be ignored. When I’m dragged into one of these whirlpools, the thought that I could be working on the new book instead of this “mouse-milking” (maximum amount of effort for the least amount of product) makes me profoundly sad.

3. What are your goals in terms of plot, character development or the craft of writing itself? Are there any non-fiction guides or great works of literature that you have found helpful in improving your writing?

I really love Margaret Atwood’s Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing and Stephen King’s On Writing. Even if you’re not a huge fan of Stephen King, this book on the craft of writing is brilliant. And Atwood’s Negotiating with the Dead is eloquent, informed, and actually inspiring.

My goal for Waiting for Columbus was identical to my goal for the first two novels; show a great story and shine a light on the human condition. How are we in pain? How do we love? How do we cope with what life brings? I’m obsessively curious about how we move through this life. Where do we find honour, integrity, courage … forgiveness? Are these things important?

And, I think Waiting for Columbus is more easily approached than my first two novels. My sister, who didn’t read my first two books, called me last night and said she was on chapter six. This book has a broader scope than the first two. Columbus is so profoundly damaged and also “of” the world. He’s not just a Canadian in pain; he’s in the world, mixed up in world events. His life crosses borders, cultures, the boundaries of sanity and pain, and oceans. I don’t want to give away too much here but once I found out what happened to Columbus, as a writer, the book exploded into an exploration of the ramifications of a particular world event on one man. I thought of my daughter and how I would have felt in this man’s shoes, and I started to write. The love story was Consuela’s idea – her character brought that to the table. She fell in love.

This goal of showing a damn fine story is admittedly, a bit of a loaded statement. What is it that makes up a damn fine story? Part of the answer is: fascinating and well-rounded characters. But it’s more than that isn’t it? There has to be that dramatic tension – the question “Why”, or “How” or “What” hanging over the narrative – the question(s) that keeps readers reading. On page three, if I came along and tried to rip my book out of your hands, I want resistance – I want pull back. I want readers to be engaged on page three.

I don’t care about plot. I work hard on my characters – give them life – and then I let them worry about plot. My goal regarding the craft of writing? Imperfection. I hope to achieve a magnificent imperfection. Flawless writing is not the goal. Perfect writing is not the goal. Perfect writing is also dead writing. I got this from a discussion with Barry Callaghan (well, it was more a lecture) at a WordFest panel in Calgary in 2009. The imperfections are profoundly interesting and they are what give life to our writing. Our scars, our injuries, our minor imperfections are what I find interesting.

4. Your synopsis of Waiting for Columbus mentions “the recesses of loss” and the “extraordinary capacity of the human spirit.” Similar themes are raised in your 2006 novel, Doubting Yourself to the Bone. In writing these novels, have you drawn on your own personal experiences of loss and recovery? If not, how have you tried to bring depth to your handling of these themes? In the words of Quill & Quire, how did you manage to “create an overall balance that makes [Doubting Yourself to the Bone] both emotionally rewarding and entertaining”?

I’m interested in the stories of people who suffer loss, or damage. I’m interested in what happens next how are they going to react? What will they do? Will they rise up to the challenge or will they fold? Will they run away and start drinking? Do they turn and face reality? Do they hide inside a delusion? Yes, I think writers all draw on their own personal experiences. But whether or not a writer has gone through the exact same experience as her character(s) is irrelevant. We lie. We imagine. We create. We lie really well. We take the facts and then lie and turn and twist and mangle until we arrive at the truth. Emily Dickinson got it right: It’s our job to “Tell all the Truth but tell it slant.” Beyond this, I think the depth of a narrative can come from the dark rooms of our imaginations. It is our job to continually ask “what if?”

Did Quill & Quire really say that about Doubting Yourself to the Bone? I’m thrilled that a reviewer found that story both emotionally rewarding and entertaining. That’s pretty high praise. Reviews; I struggle with reviews. I threaten, with each book, to never read a review, neither positive, nor negative and my wife, God bless her, looks at me and shakes her head and says something like: “You’re not that big.” Meaning: I’m not John Irving, or Michael Ondaatje and I ought to suck it up and look at all the reviews  - I have much to learn.

Listen, I think “emotionally rewarding and entertaining” is a fine thing to say about a book. It’s a good goal. I can’t say that this is top of mind while I’m writing but I certainly recognize the dull bits in my own writing and they get cut, or re-written, or tightened up. And I am keenly aware of emotional turmoil, or impact. I watch these scenes for sentimentality. I want to steer clear of anything even flirting with sentimentality.

I know I’ve gone to dark places in my books. I was aware of that darkness as I was writing the last book, Waiting for Columbus. And so, when one of my characters said something funny, it was a bit jarring. It stopped me. I had to consider whether or not it fit even in a book where one of the main characters is delusional. This is not to say that “funny” is the only thing that’s entertaining. But, if I manage to move a reader and entertain them, I’ve done my job.

5. Research is integral to all works of fiction yet there is always a limit to the amount of time a novelist wants to spend researching. Joy Fielding has said that she researches key facts that will enable her contemporary books to feel real and I have taken a similar approach with The 29th Day. I have started researching Flora MacDonald Denison, a Canadian Suffragette, for parts of a novel that are set in 1895 and am wondering how much I need to dig up before I can start embellishing. Waiting for Columbus includes themes relating to mental illness and historical facts about Columbus, while Doubting Yourself to the Bone reflects on a family’s grief. Can you please describe your approach to researching your novels and how you reach the right compromise between accuracy and interest.

I researched Dissociative identity disorder (DID), its symptoms, history, treatments, and so on, on-line, through libraries, and by interviewing doctors. I wanted to get it right. I read, read, read about Columbus. No two books agreed, which made my job as writer of a fictional Columbus stuck in the damaged mind of a mental patient, well, quite fun. But I read probably a dozen or more books before I started to create. I also read a few books on what life was like in Spain in the 15th century. I researched wine. I researched the currents and temperature in the Strait of Gibraltar. In Doubting Yourself to the Bone, I definitely researched depression as it relates to suicide and depression around abortion. I think, as writers, we’re looking for the weight of reality – the details that allow readers to suspend disbelief and enter the seamless dream.

6. At every writing event I have gone to, there is always a question about the mechanics of an author’s writing. Could you please comment on the practicalities behind your writing? For example, do you keep notes in a notebook? If so, at what point to you transfer them to a computer? Do you write on a laptop or a desktop? Do you hide yourself away in a quiet room or write at cafés? And the biggest question of all: Do you use a Mac or a PC?

I’m constantly researching. I’m always poking around in stuff I find interesting. It’s difficult to turn off the writer’s eyes. I always have a journal with me – for ideas, snippets of conversation and so on. And my dreams, when I can remember to remember them, go in there too. Once I find my characters and have a sense of direction, and can articulate the overriding tension that’s going to drive the narrative – and ultimately, the reader – I begin to write. I write 1,500 words a day for three or four months. I do not have a road map. I do have a general direction in which I’d like to story to go, but once developed; my characters will make the decisions that are right for them, and the story. I write to find out what’s going to happen. I find this creative edge incredibly exciting. If I knew what was going to happen, I wouldn’t write. No matter what – birthdays, Christmas, holidays, anything – I write 1,500 words (at least) every day. Some days I feel like all I’ve written is crap. A few weeks later, I’ll go over this same piece of writing and realize it’s actually pretty good.

At the end of four months I’ll lift my head up and start to weave the story together. Because I write in chunks, I’ll often write out of order—well, mostly I write out of order. And so I begin a different process of weaving the fragments together – seeing the pieces as a whole, making those beautiful oblique connections that I don’t understand – with the goal of creating a seamless narrative dream.

My daily routine is: I write when I can. I have an eight-year-old who has so many questions. And a full-time job. And I play piano in this group called the Raving Poets Band (we back up poets at an open stage session in a lounge in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada on Wednesday nights www.ravingpoets.com ). And all marriages require work, which I’m happy to do. Usually, I write from 10PM to whatever time it is when I have 1,500 words. After I take what’s in my journal and transfer it to computer, I write directly onto the computer. I write in my office, which is the basement (something I need to remedy). And, I am a Mac guy, always have been. I’m not religious about Macs or anything. They’re just superior. (HA!)

7. All writers are influenced by the work of other authors. My personal influences include Margaret Atwood, John Irving and Terry Fallis. Who has influenced your writing the most, and in what ways? Have you tried to distinguish your writing from these authors in any way?

Ernest Hemingway. Kurt Vonnegut. Mark Twain. Michael Ondaatje. Wallace Stegner. Carol Shields. Alice Munro. Al Purdy. Mordecai Richler. John Irving. Rumi. Mavis Gallant. Tobias Wolff. Lawrence Durrell. Trevanian. Paul Bowles.

All these writers have fine, strong voices that are distinct, and they are incredible story tellers. You’ll notice a few poets on my list; also, good story tellers. It took me a good long time to extricate myself from Hemingway. I read him and find myself writing like him. And, of course, nobody writes like Hemingway. It was fun, but it wasn’t me.

8. Could you describe the steps you took to get your first book published?

Ha. No horror story here. No 300 rejections. None of that. I wrote The 52nd Poem and then took a year to re-work it. Then I found a couple small publishers in Canada who take manuscripts from writers and queried them. Great Plains Publications responded first. I sent them the manuscript and began to wait. After three months, I sent a reminder letter. I kept reframing my argument for publication. I tried to see the world through a publisher’s eyes. I basically launched a campaign of harassment. Then one day, I got an e-mail saying they were going to publish my novel. I only found out what actually happened three years later. One of the office workers at Great Plains was going home for the weekend and wanted something to read. My novel was on a pile and it was the only novel in that pile. She was looking for a novel. She read it over the weekend and was standing at the front door of the office on Monday morning with my manuscript in her hands. When the publisher showed up she thrust it into his hands and said “You have to read this!” The book won the 2003 Best Novel award in Alberta, and the City of Edmonton Book Prize. Great Plains’ Publisher, Gregg Shilliday, is one of my favourite people on the planet.

Prior to this, I poked along and published poems and short stories in literary magazines – built up a resume of publications. I took creative writing at the University of Alberta and worked with a great editor at the Banff Centre.

9. To what extent did your life change as a result of having been published?

Not too much. I still write every day. I still dream about stories. I struggle with problems in my stories. I still love playing with words. My friends tell me that being published is stepping inside a very exclusive club….that regardless of the thousands of books published every year; it’s a very small club. I’m not sure about this.

I feel like I’m living a dream. I get to play with words and narratives and create characters and then connect with readers. That’s an amazing feeling.

Perhaps, I have a more intense understanding of time. It’s ticking away and I value my time more. Maybe this is just a result of age.

And recently, because Waiting for Columbus has done really well, I have no more debt.

10. Could you tell us about the current projects you are working on?

The new novel is tentatively called How the light gets in – which is a riff on a line from Rumi. A lapsed Muslim just out of Guantanamo Bay and a Canadian hiding out from a disastrous marriage meet on a beach on the Mexican Riviera.

11. I have been developing some ideas about fiction as a form of cultural philanthropy or a force for positive social change. Do you have any messages or social goals that you try to bring out in your writing?

I think all fiction has the potential to be a force for positive social change. It’s not something that is front and centre as I write but artists reflect the world back to readers, viewers, and listeners. We shine lights on the human condition – the good, the bad and the indifferent. Just the act of shining that light can make change. I suppose, despite the darkness abiding in my novels, the message is always one of hope. I’m hopeful. My art is hopeful. There are times when my strong beliefs about something will sneak into a character and they’ll want to preach or harp. But it has to work in the story or it doesn’t make it into the book.

12. Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for aspiring writers?

Communication with readers is really important. Making a human connection with a reader. It is an absolute joy – completely gratifying, when a reader takes the time to find me on my website and write what they feel about my book – even if they have a problem with the book. It’s the communication!!! Or, when I go to a book club – and I go to a lot of book clubs – and get to listen to, and interact with, readers. Listen, if you want to become a better writer, do not hang out with other writers (you’ll just drink a lot and get in trouble); rather, hang out with readers. Rilke said something about no work of art being complete until it is delivered to an audience – well, for a writer, I think, the circle is complete when we communicate with a reader – when we know that something of our intent, our vision, or story, was communicated.

And reading is important. You have to read, read, read, everything…inside your comfort zone, and outside your comfort area. A writer who doesn’t read isn’t a writer; they’re just a monkey banging on a keyboard.

Final comments:

Thank you for your insightful questions and for the opportunity to do this!!! It’s been such a joy to work on these….part of me didn’t want it to stop….

Evadne Macedo’s exclusive interview with Thomas Trofimuk was originally posted at http://books.macedo.ca on December 16, 2009

For more information about Thomas Trofimuk, visit:

http://www.thomastrofimuk.com/

Please also read Evadne Macedo’s previous author profiles and interviews posted at http://books.macedo.ca under “Author interviews and profiles” :

• Gina Buonaguro & Janice Kirk: Ciao Bella and The Sidewalk Artist (December 9, 2009),
• Don LePan: Animals (December 2, 2009)
• Ray Robertson: David (November 25, 2009)
• Deborah Willis: Vanishing and Other Stories (GG Finalist) (November 19, 2009)
• Joy Fielding: Still Life & many other novels (November 14, 2009)