the wonderful Jeff Rivera interviewed me for his series on writers of color for the publishing website GalleyCat. Here’s a sneak peek at the piece:
Jamey Hatley suspects that she is a “novelist by temperament.” She is currently using this temperament to expand her short story, “Dream Season,” (Published in Oxford American) into her first novel, making Hatley an up-and-coming author to keep your eye on. Viewing herself as a storyteller, Hatley’s interests lie in the equal development of both “character and plot… stories with complex characters in difficult situations that get progressively more difficult.” Hatley explores “the wins and losses in post Civil Rights Movement America,” within Dream Season. The assassination of Dr. Martin Luther is certainly a difficult and tense enough situation – but add the element of twins born at the exact same moment and the consequent death of one those twins, and you obtain the premise of Hatley’s novel-in-progress.
a cascade of black leaves, the barely perceptible shift in light that whispers fall (even if the temperature says otherwise), a pole now rusted and folded into an angle that suggests a giant bendy-straw rising from a creamy hunk of stone–all that remains of a World War 2 monument. the flag that must have flown there only a memory, much like the people it was supposed to honor.
so one of my “gifts” to myself when i graduated was a subscription to the new yorker. my buddy dub reads it religiously (as the stack in his bathroom proves) and my joke whenever he announces some random bit of knowledge is “where’d you learn that, the new yorker?” leaving an mfa program there was almost always a conversation that started, “did you see the (insert famous writer) story in the new yorker?” and always, always my answer was no. a magazine like the new yorker is one of those places where my “class” was hanging out. granted, i had a master’s degree in journalism 7 years before i started the mfa, granted, i always read a considerable amount of fiction (in relation to my peers) but no one i knew (outside of a cousin who actually lives in new york) ever owned a copy of the new yorker.
the conversations around those few stories that actually made it to the new yorker’s pages were so reverent in nature i began to feel a little ashamed that every week my answer was still, no i hadn’t read the story and further, no i didn’t read the new yorker at all. so when i got on the magic mailing list that offered me a cheap subscription i sent in my $25 and waited to be enlightened.
at first those issues were exciting. i felt like i was a part of some in crowd of writers. i had the sneaking suspicion that one day i would be on the precipice of landing my dream agent or editor and they would ask, “oh, did you see the last (insert famous writer) piece in the new yorker?” and i would be able to answer smartly, “why yes, i did.” only i didn’t. i didn’t actually read any of the stories. well, that’s not entirely true. i did read magda mandela by hari kunzru which was so brilliant and strange and alive that i still can’t stop thinking about it. and i read the story by adichie (which makes me feel better since she just won a genius grant). and a story about time travel by rivka galchen. and now that i look down the list of stories, i see a few more than that, but still only a bit more than a handful. and although i did save that issue that was the talk of many, many weeks, i don’t know what piece of fiction appeared in that issue.
but other than that it was just start, stop. start stop. anxiety and nervousness. i felt guilty for not reading them and anxious when i tried. i was analyzing instead of enjoying. is the writer older or younger than i am? how many books out? what school? it all became too much muchness. i would end up stopping a few pages in and then bam. there was a new issue with new anxiety delivered right to my door. i tried and tried to throw them out and finally, a year and a half later i did. i didn’t pull the stories out and file them. i didn’t make a list for future reference. i tossed them, but i still worry about not being able to answer the “have you read that story in the new yorker?” question properly.
that is the title of b. b. king’s autobiography, but aptly describes my life these days. since the 2nd of this month, i have worked on my book almost every day. i’m deep in the groove and every time i look up i see something that i haven’t seen before, or these days that i hear something in a new way. tonight i caught both the ending and beginning of the gangs of new york. the film opens and closes with brutal fight scenes. in the background of both of these scenes is shimmy she wobble by otha turner. it is amazing how this thing lives inside you. actually, it is more like breath, moving in and out back and forth, each time transformed.
i’m always the first to brag on my friends, but i get incredibly shy when they return the favor. emilie over at jill of all trades and takema of loverly notions have had some very nice things to say about me recently. these women are the core of the community that holds me down in this crazy writing life. thanks, ladies! definitely check them out and subscribe to their blogs.
ain’t technology grand? reclusive author thomas pynchonouted as the voice of the book trailer for his new novel inherent vice. i think it’s really cool that he used technology to “connect”. as a bit of a technophobe, i’m kinda creeped out about the whole voiceprint angle to confirm his identity. how weird is it that is was the wall street journal that got the scoop? the joke at the end is pretty charming.
as usual, just when i think things are falling apart on the page, they are really coming together. i spent last week in a kind of low-grade panic that whispered this thing will NEVER be done. but, i did my time at the writing table. i tried to follow the directive issued to me by my book to trust. i surrendered my way to the book’s way. endured the threshold guardians and recieved my reward. i often have a kind of vague notion that some handful of details belong in the book. i go along picking up things, sorting them into pockets–the”this book” pocket or the “next books” pocket. sometimes i carry around these pieces for years, sometimes i know where they go immediately. but every now and then i’ll take the details out and stare at them like tea leaves, hoping for them to make some sense. i’ll be writing along, feeling blocked feeling the story calling out for something. i’ll pluck something out and realize that one of those seemingly random details is exactly what is needed. it had been there. waiting.
this is a photo of a kitchen remodel by mark maresca. i love that the cabinets are like pieces of furniture instead of mere storage. pull up a barstool and have a glass of wine, why don’t you?
