My wife looms at the ledge of the bed. The cold meat of my brain, freezer-burned with slumber, is still in defrost mode. Meanwhile, my wife has already risen, showered, powdered, dressed, breakfasted, read the morning news, cried about the morning news, genuflected and regurgitated, and undressed again. Now she stands naked in the middle of the room, like an unflappable art-class model, waiting for her indolent husband to get up and do something meaningful, and maybe felonious, with his life. I can’t fake it anymore. I get up and go to the closet, where we keep the new suit piled atop the canoe cushions we used at four months, the pillows we passed off as five.I try to chirp the theme music from some public-television programming—the kind of children’s show that takes place in a psychotropically colorful wonderland populated by ragged hand-puppets and a smattering of adult actors, always in supporting roles, who teach sensible, low-impact morality lessons while struggling to beat back the melancholy tide of time. I whistle three trilling notes. My wife interrupts me with a dejected sigh of her own and reaches ceilingward. “Just strap the fucking thing on,” she says.I glide the foam mold over her upper body, negotiating its blunt juts and bony angles, her knuckled spine, the curled shrimp of her ribcage. She resembles a famished insect sliding into its shell. Sure, she could do it herself, but it’s the collaboration she needs. A co-conspirator. Someone to share the secret and blame, and maybe, too, some kind of vestigial love. I double-knot the flesh-colored straps and tuck the washing-instructions tag inside the hollow bowl of her armpit. “How do I look?” she asks, draping a floral-print maternity shroud atop the big belly. The shroud is sized extra-large to create a bit of ambiguity about the duration.“Like six months,” I say, a little too hesitantly.My wife fixes herself in the mirror and turns smoothly, like a showroom automobile on a rotating stage, something too glossy to believe, let alone buy. Her face empties. The lower lip starts to jiggle. “I look like I’m nine months,” she says. “I’m ready to rupture.” Me, I am doing my usual hangdog grovel, the one look in my repertoire I do not have to falsify or embellish. “They only had the one size in stock. You still appear ravishing to poor cretins like me.”She takes my loose face in her hands and lifts it, me, to the light. Semi-sweetly, she says, “Who are you fucking kidding?”“There is literally a shell of ice around my brain. If you give me a few minutes to thaw—”“We are so hopeless,” she says.I lie: “I don’t think that at all.”She releases me but holds to her reflection, glaring hard at the boyish hips, the vitamin-deficient skinny and pall. “You’re going to be late for work.”“I’m not going to work.”“You’re still going to be late,” she says.
***
That first slothful winter: I sat in my car, the heat low, the radio off, depriving myself of the commuter life’s few amenities—in lieu of legitimate penance, I suppose—while the car sat in one undistinguished parking lot after another. I wasn’t looking very diligently. I just stared at the slabs of opaque frost my breath left on the windshield. How spectacular, the things the body did when nobody was paying attention, when nobody cared. Instead of music or talk radio, I listened to the clamor of my shivering organs and somatic departments, tabulating the chattiest offenders. Curdled fluids, tired fibers, damaged loins. All my spooky nooks were gossiping about me. I etched my initials in the frosted glass, X’d them out, then wrote different initials. When I returned home at the end of the day, my wife was on the couch, beta-testing a new breed of pout, one that combined compassionate disappointment with compassionate disgust.“What happened?” she asked. “Huh?”“You’re limping.” “My leg got crampy from sitting all day in the car.”“You were in the car? How can you get one when you’re sitting in the car?”The television was muted, flickering in the dark. I tried to flutter my eyelids to synchronize with the strobe. All any of us want, I guess, is an allegiance with something. Even something inane.“It’s like an arctic expedition out there,” I said, peeling off my itchy mittens and wool scarf and false beard. “They’re bundled up and getting pushed in strollers, or they’re leashed up and dragging their parents across the frozen tundra. I’m not fast enough to chase sled dogs. I can’t loaf around the stores like those do-gooders from the Salvation Army.”Her pout solidified, aged, fossilized. I could count the gloomy pocks and cragged ridges now imprinted across her frozen tundra. So many ancient, incredulous creases.“The office called,” she said.“What did you tell them?”“I told them there were complications. I said the doctor sent us to the hospital, and the hospital was sending us to a specialist.”“That’s smart.”“I feel like we’re the stupidest people alive.”“That, too,” I said.I left my goulashes in a puddle of muck by the door, and I joined my wife on the couch. She was watching her wildlife program again. This episode featured a pride of lions gorging on a buffet of eviscerated zebra carcasses. Black-white-red stripes striated the screen like an experimental test pattern. Our clandestine panics and emergencies seemed to be articulated so purely in the wobble. The most unnerving part was the lack of sound. All that ferocious churning, the lazy and thoughtless carnage, zero repentance, not a single groan or complaint or scream of thanks. I turned to my wife and tried to find her face in the dithering half-light. Her lips were stained brownish, as if she had been feasting on chocolate mousse. Better than the wallpaper. She was balancing a mug of hot cocoa on the stuffed koala that was bulging out of her sweatpants—the second of her stomachs. The hand towels kept slipping out.I laid a hand in her lap.“Please don’t touch me,” she said.I nodded. “Because of the complications. We’re going to see the specialist. We are living the role. Just like those TV lions with their talent agents and SAG cards and publicists.”“You should ice that leg.”“I’ve had enough ice for one day. Can I get you anything?”“Yes,” she said. “Please get off the couch.” “What else?”“Go out.”“Where?”“Try another parking lot. Maybe an elementary school or playground or pediatrician’s office. If you stay here, we’ll never get pregnant.”
***
Springtime delivers its own silver platter of ripe disappointments. I spend my mornings loitering on a half-acre of grim, sun-scalded blacktop outside one of five Discount Utopias in the tri-county region. I avoid the popular supermarkets because their parking lots are populated by squads of embittered teenagers in dirty khakis and too-large smocks who tend the shopping-cart corrals and pretend to look competent. Discount Utopia has no such extravagance. The clientele is a mix of whiskered retirees living on fixed incomes and young unwed women who cannot possibly bear the thankless burden of motherhood alone. Best of all, management is too miserly to refurbish the outdoor sodium lamps or install security cameras. This rankles me as a citizen and potential customer, but as a needy, skulky father-to-be, I am content to exploit the lapse.I never venture into actual stores. Sadly, I no longer have the disposable income to make superficial purchases that justify my public sharking. My wife and I live off the dividends of her dead parents’ stock portfolio, which is not as robust as it used to be. I can barely afford to put gas in the car that I can barely afford to lease or insure. I’ve been on alleged paternity leave at work so long, I don’t think I have a job anymore. I also don’t think I have the chutzpah to call up my company’s HR hotline and ask if I can have my old position back, or maybe get a different position, or at least pay the office a perfunctory visit and box up my things. It’s midday. I’m hunched at my car’s front left tire, pretending to fix a flat. Occasionally I stand up and sulk around, scratching at the cheap nylon wig that hugs my head. Nobody stops for me. Nobody offers any help. Certainly no Good Samaritans with small, fledgling Samaritans in tow.After a while, I notice a bagboy with an unflattering flattop and a face of pusillanimous acne, lingering at the corner of the building. He’s sneaking a cigarette on his lunch break. I imagine this violates some stodgy corporate protocol, but I am probably not the best person to lodge a complaint with his shift supervisor. Maybe this makes us allies of a sort? Maybe not. The young guy coolly observes my helplessness charade, his lank fame leaned against the brick wall like a bracket too loosely screwed, his sloughy potato face leaking smoke. The kid’s dawdling makes me nervous, and I decide I better flee. I kick the tire a few times. I shrug like it’s no big deal. But I can’t find the keys to my car. I’ve misplaced them. When I glance up again, the kid has flicked the butt and is wiping the ash off his apron as he strolls over. He wants to give me a few helpful pointers.“That tire isn’t flat.”“Thanks,” I say.“Look at that tread. You’ve barely driven on it.” He has a particular gloat in his voice, but there is something uncertain in his expression, a weird fissure or breach. His eyeballs are skittering in their sockets.“Anything else?” I ask.He scans the expanse of the parking lot, formulating some special notion behind those rootless eyes. He sidles up next to me. “I get it,” he whispers. “Pretending your car is busted and you’re stranded here, so some lusty lady will pick you up, take you home, and serve you a dish of piping-hot poon. It’s a good shtick.”He winks at me.“You’ve got the wrong idea,” I say. “I have a wife.”“That’s cool, man. Did you skeez up on her in a parking lot, too?”The kid flashes a nervous smile. He tries another wink.“Stop winking at me,” I say. “You look diseased.”He slouches against the adjacent car, a station wagon with more rust than paint, and fusses his nametag: Karl. Maybe this is just me, but I find something greatly destabilizing about spelling Karl with a K. He lights another cigarette and tries to smoke in stoic solitude. I can tell the hypotheticals are niggling him.“I met my wonderful heterosexual wife,” I explain, “in one of those comedy improv classes that were all the rage a few years ago. The point had been impressed upon me by several colleagues and supervisors that such a class might help me burnish my social skills, which apparently needed a whole lot of burnishing. I had big dreams of being a normal human being.”“Did it help? The class?”“Of course not. But I met a strange, pretty, shy woman who was just as lonely as me, and just as unfunny, and we started a hopeless, laughless life together.”“My folks met in Al-Anon—” “I’m unspooling a narrative here, Karl-with-a-K.” The seventeen-year-old gives a stiff nod, worldly and resolute, as if bluffing knowledge is the same thing as knowledge itself. Maybe that’s true, and this bagboy career is but a springboard to some loftier trade, like bagel slicer or latte flunky. Either way, he hasn’t traded the agony of adolescence for the agony of adulthood just yet, and those sour teen years bring a wisdom and pain of their own. We’d all do well to heed the lessons of the Karl-with-a-Ks of the republic. They will be the ones, after all, who will usher us into assisted living facilities, ladle out our pills and morphine drips, and launch our ghastly ashes into space.“The narrative?” he says, urging me on.I tell him she wanted a child more than anything, probably more than she wanted a husband. But there was a minor problem. I’d already had the procedure done.I point to my groin.“You got circumscribed?”“Yes,” I say, grinning. “Circumscribed. Exactly.”It had been an extreme course of action, perhaps, but I had been a pitiful bachelor for so long. The loneliness may have deranged me. I wasted most of my twenties and early thirties going to craft fairs, yoga retreats, prochoice rallies, anywhere single women might congregate and need companionship. But they must’ve smelled the desperate pheromones wafting off me, and they stayed away. I thought I’d be alone forever and that’s what I deserved. The vasectomy was a form of revenge against myself. Then I met this sweet woman who suffered a crippling sadness and believed that having children would fix the terrible, broken thing inside her. I didn’t want to disappoint this woman. I didn’t want to lose her. I acted as if everything was fine. Maybe a miracle would stumble along and save me. It had happened already, my meeting her. Maybe it could happen again.The kid rubs his haircut, so short and unforgiving, I can tabulate the dents in his scalp. He also has this weird cauliflowered ear that seems a consequence of some barbaric junior varsity sport.“They can reattach them,” he says.“Huh?”I look down. He’s doing the groin point, the unseemliness of which is now apparent to me.“I wasn’t castrated, Karl. I’m not livestock.”He nods evenly. “Science.”“Anyway I already tried that. There was this dodgy surgeon in a strip mall. I should’ve found someone more reputable, someone with steady hands who wasn’t quivering on gin. This hack was all I could afford. He hacked me up, all right. Now the machinery is totally kaput. I didn’t tell my wife about that, either. What could I say?”I catch him side-eyeing the store entrance. His interest is flagging, but I’m not ready to let him leave. This confession stuff is invigorating. Unfortunately, I can’t speak this way to my wife. Her brittle constitution just couldn’t handle it. Ergo, I need to purge every last ounce of honesty from my system before I get anywhere near hearth and home.“It’s strenuous work, pretending you want a child,” I tell him. “You don’t happen to have any younger siblings or cousins, do you?”The kid chuckles and gives his patchy skull one final rub, then traipses off, back to the store, before I can grab him and wrestle him into the trunk.I locate my car keys, glinting, on the ground. Maybe I have a gaping hole in my pocket, the same size and shape, roughly, of the gaping holes in my head and loins and life. Maybe all of me is one large rupture, too tatty and moist to ever be stitched back together. I grab the ring of keys and—I don’t know why—I pitch them overhand, with mild fury, at a nearby car, not realizing the car isn’t empty. Some haggard guy pops up from the backseat, where he was evidently napping. Is he homeless? Jobless? Familyless? Is he an unfortunate guy or a lucky guy? What are the odds he’s a disgraced genital surgeon looking to redeem himself with a little pro-bono work?I shrug and meekly wave. Then I do my funny, joggy walk of shame to fetch the keys from underneath a battered hatchback. I notice this vehicle is also occupied: an old dowager wielding a pair of scissors, clipping coupons from the local pennysaver. I check another car, and another, and another. Dozens of people are sitting in dozens of vehicles, their postures cramped, their faces vacant, everyone waiting for some miracle or accident or statistical fluke to restore order and comprehension to their day. In the last car, I see a glazy, hunched shape in a rainbow-striped shirt and corduroy dungarees, tiny and alone. I scrunch closer. But it isn’t an abandoned child. It’s a CPR doll that some sadistic prankster has buckled into the backseat. The molded-plastic face looks a thousand years old. The decal eyes gaze back at me, an expression of blank, readymade oblivion—and the awful joy of it.I hustle home.
***
My wife is in our bedroom with four years’ worth of funeral wear spread flat on the bed. I’m not sure what she’s trying to tell me, standing there, silently reviewing all that mournful black. I’m in the doorway with a wine-in-a-box that I’ve been ferrying around in the boot of our car for months. Neither my wife nor I drink. Honestly, we don’t do much of anything aside from bicker and grieve the loss of a future that was never ours to claim. Now she’s afraid of leaving the house, and I’m afraid of her fear. I sometimes wonder how it would look on TV, a wife who likes to play dress-up to baffle her biology, confuse her uterus, into fertility, and a husband who lurks the world’s loneliest parking lots, too cowardly to steal children he doesn’t really want. I don’t know if we’re living a harmless sitcom or one of those vulgar true-crime shows.It’s late evening. Despite a fine selection of morbid clothing, my wife is still wearing her cheetah-spotted bathrobe. No preggers suit, no plush belly. She gives me this tolerant yet terrorized look. There’s a great frenzy of eyelash involved. “What’s going on?” I ask. “Nothing.”“Honey? Baby?”“Don’t call me that.”“Tell me,” I say, trying not to stutter the words. “Is this…another miscarriage?”My wife folds her arms and ekes out a low moan. Near the baseboard behind the bed, where she thinks I won’t bother to look, is a strip of pink sirloinish paint that resembles a living organ, a living something, where the wallpaper has been finagled and peeled away. My emaciated wife is secretly stripping the house bare and cramming it down her digestive tract. Then she vomits up the chewed chunks, along with her meals, her sadness, her spite. I have heard that pica is a risk for pregnant women, but their disconsolate impostors, too? Perhaps there is a special degrading flavor in wallpaper that we all long to taste. Here’s another fear: The more our little prenatal ruse gets drawn out, the sicker and weaker my wife grows, so I must prolong the ruse, if only to protect her from reality, making her even sicker, weaker, etc. The destructive urge? I understand that. It’s the cleanup that confounds me. We bury another bedraggled bath towel in the backyard, and we start again.
***
This morning belongs to a field trip of senior citizens who are bused in from a retirement enclave outside of town. I watch their leisurely parade across the blacktop with their twinkling wheelchairs and chrome walkers, a coagulated mudslide of tweed, pilled flannel, garish polyester. By lunchtime, the housewives arrive in their shapeless muumuus and defeated sweatpants, and several hours after that, the five o’clock business crowd, i.e., my people, their neckties loosened, shirttails untucked, trailing their usual draft of smothered despair. In between the clusters, I spot several truant teenagers, a few runty, genderless individuals of ambiguous age. No children, though. The daylong sun is cooking me into my vehicle’s upholstery, and in a fit of heat-infused delirium, I fantasize about grabbing one of the old folks, lashing it like a Douglas fir to my rooftop, and speeding home. Maybe I could fasten a pink bow around the senior’s skull and make it shout “Mommy!” as I drag the poor thing kicking and crying through the front door. Then, I don’t know, maybe I reward it with a lollipop or pension or something?Eventually, I get so restless I climb out. I walk around the car. I walk around the lot. I walk all the way into the store. I know I should sidestep the one-way mirrors and hidden cameras and loss-prevention experts masquerading as incognito shoppers, but I’m just too tired for any more subterfuge. Assorted customers amble in the aisles, aloof and distracted, trying to desperately suppress their pitiable dreams long deferred, the cravings and nostalgias and wry hopes that have both buttressed and doomed their lives, and mine. I don’t encounter any abandoned carts or deserted offspring. These people have watched too many news programs. They’ve seen too many horror movies. Right now, their children are safely at home, locked in the basement with electronic monitors clamped on their ankles, GPS chips imbedded behind their golden smiles.Then, as I’m standing in the party-supply aisle, mired in reverie, I’m nearly T-boned by a woman navigating an overloaded cart. She grumbles an apology, and I step out of the way, whereupon I notice, rather helplessly, the child slotted in the cart’s foldout seat. I feign interest in a rack of crepe streamers and bend around to get a better look. What I see mortifies me. The toddler has a face so mean and crumpled—red meaty cheeks, wet chin jutting—so utterly judgmental, I could almost be staring at a picture of myself.I’m already sorry it is happening: I clench up, set my feet, rear back, and I smack the child so hard it tumbles sideward into a bin of holiday tinsel. The shouting is instantaneous. They tackle me from all sides. Customers, shelf stockers, managers, cashiers, custodians, the lone security guard waddling out of the restroom with his pants half-hitched. The entire world descends upon the party aisle—upon me, screaming, too, at the bottom of the heap—and everyone begins pulling me apart, ligament by ligament, broken piece by broken piece, and I feel like finally, finally I must have done something right.
These actors are cracked. Out from under techno-creep overseers rise the rejects, the dropouts, and the freaks. A counterculture funhouse, home to strung out hedonists, underground musicians, magic practitioners, and those just looking for the next party. With Venice Peach (Maudlin House, 2025), Jessamyn Violet creates an alternate reality that seems too wild a proposition and yet right around an interdimensional corner. Politics and show business intermingle in new and strange ways, as LA’s free spirits are put to the test. I spoke to Jessamyn about this unruly book.Rebecca Gransden:Step right up here, Pop Stars and Punkers...Welcome to the Strangest Show on Earth.The world of Venice Peach is one of spectacle. It speaks the language of the sideshow, of show business and the circus. What draws you to the carnival?Jessamyn Violet: The two most primal draws to the carnival are A) knowing that you are also a freak and wanting to be with your people, or B) the fascination with freaks because you secretly wish that you were freakier. For me, I was a freak AND a geek from an early age, and that’s why I enjoy living in and writing about the carnival atmosphere. It’s always a little off-kilter; you can feel the dysfunction lurking close beneath the surface. There’s an intoxicating mix of fun, pride, and production magic in the air. When I first moved to Venice, there was the original Freak Show on the boardwalk, which was more of a weird, dusty cabinet of curiosities. They had the two-headed turtles and snakes out front to draw a crowd. Over time, some reality TV money came in and it grew into a full-fledged performance featuring an electric lady, a guy who would put a fish hook through his nose, a bearded lady, and more. Some crazy stuff went down, and it basically disappeared overnight. The boardwalk really hasn’t felt the same since. I ran into the bearded lady at a dive bar in New Orleans this past fall and she still didn’t want to talk about it. RG: When did you first have the idea for the book? How long did it take to write?JV: This book came to me in the early fall of 2016 in a way no other book has. We were facing that election and I could sense what was about to go down. I wanted to go to a place in my head where all the worst had already happened and the characters were on some sort of wayward, weary “uptick” again. It was my version of pressing an ambiguously optimistic fast-forward button, I suppose. I wanted the characters to feel hope, and to feel sexy, and to also be inevitably doomed. The first draft came to me faster than any before, in just over two months. Of course there have been years of revisions since, but the “first take” came out from somewhere pure and almost prewritten. I had the “lightning fingers.” Just like it’s supposed to feel, but hardly ever does. RG:A strange and wonky energy tugged and pushed at all those wandering the Venice Beach boardwalk at dusk. Drifters and vagrants scattered in search of shelter. Robotic security scanned the souvenir shops as the owners shuttered their doors and windows, preparing for a tumultuous night of hot gusts blowing in from Santa Ana. Airborne grit and grime coated the heaping piles of abandoned technology and covered benches and turbo-tennis courts like dirty snow. Outside gyms and the silicone skate bowl grew littered with fallen palm fronds and feathers.Venice Beach is your location. How did you settle upon this place as the main focus of the novel? In what ways does the version of Venice Beach shown in the book differ from the reality?JV: Venice Beach has always had a profound effect on me. I moved clear across the country in 2006 just to take a chance that I’d be able to live here, and I’ve held on tight ever since. It’s a place that helps me make more sense to myself, gives me a deep inner peace…. Basically, a soulmate manifested as a place. And since I couldn’t marry it, I wrote a fictional tribute to it. My only hope was to be able to capture it in a way that conveyed the full range of the colors, art, creativity, characters and electricity in the air, here; that demonstrates the freak haven that it is and will hopefully always be. You can go out wearing absolutely anything and people don’t bat an eye. As someone from a small town, this feels endlessly refreshing. All types of people can be found in Venice Beach, making it arguably the best people watching in the world. The juxtaposition of the boardwalk and Abbot Kinney Blvd, as gritty as it can be glamorous. Venice Peach’s version of Venice is kind of like the real one on hallucinogenics. I wanted the book to be a trippy reflection of it – a place where bizarre people collide and accept each other for their differences, but distorted enough that you could believe you were in an altered version of it. RG: Until recently the idea of a robot president would’ve horrified most voters of whatever political persuasion, now it doesn’t seem an unreasonable option. How do you view the president’s role in the book?JV: The weirdest part about the robot president role, President TBD 3000, is that I wrote it before AI took off… Back in 2016, I’m not even sure I’d heard the initials yet. It was just a funny (in its awfulness) idea to me. I could never have guessed that it would become so much more relevant – and maybe even possible. Hard to comment much more without spoilers, but… I think that President TBD’s role in the book holds up eight years later, miraculously. RG: A juicy peach with dark glasses adorns the front of the book. What’s the story behind the cover?JV: The cover art is the work of Venice muralist/street artist Muckrock. Her artwork is everywhere in Los Angeles, especially Westside since she lives here in Venice. I’ve been a fan of hers as long as I’ve lived here, and Muckrock is someone who shows up for her community in pure punk rock fashion. My band Movie Club collaborated with her in 2019 for a music video, and she was so cool about it that it became my dream to have her design cover art for my Venice-based book. I gave her no real direction, as it should be when you hire a master of their craft. I just said, “Do your version of a Venice peach,” and Muckrock spray-painted this icon onto a wall in an alley here in Venice Beach in about 20 minutes. You have to work fast when you’re a street artist. And as expected, she nailed it. It has since been covered up, sadly, but that’s how it goes in the world of street art. But it will live on forever on the cover. RG: Magic practice and the act of divination is part of the Venice Peach world. What led you to incorporate the ideas of witchcraft and Tarot into the book?JV: Venice Beach has as much dark magic as light, and is a potent place for witchcraft. Tarot readers are all over the boardwalk. Psychics are posted up on corners with neon signs. Tourists love to get their futures told and palms read here. Sacrificial animals have been found on the beach. A raw food cult used to have a members-only “garage” here, and I got to peep it a few times because I was trying out the raw food diet and hanging out with members with names like Pineapple Head and Vanilla Bean. There are all sorts of interesting stories about the now-abandoned cult/church structure on Rose Avenue that a famous actor from the 90s used to own. Sexy cult stories… No one has bought it since. I’m practically dying to see inside, and have often imagined posing as a buyer just to get the tour. RG:All together, there was an effortlessness to their sound that made Tiny Tin Heart an analog band that the locals had come to know and love like they were the next big thing – though it would be near impossible to reach that kind of status because the live music scene had almost completely died out. Most venues had transformed into sports bars or DJ-fueled nightclubs. And it was known that fame, in general, took longer than ever these days, thanks to the oversaturation of Everything On Earth. Music, and the music industry, plays an important part in the novel. How has your individual experience in that world fed into the book?JV: I’ve been playing and listening to music as often as I write and read books my whole life, and I often feel compelled to write musician characters that include perspectives on the music industry. I try to include a lot of angles – from the characters who do it as a hobby, to those relentlessly driven by burning passion, to the ones primarily in it for fame and fortune. Being on the frontlines of the indie music scene, I often marvel at its advances and setbacks. Too often, things get lost in translation. It’s wild to see how many talented performers struggle and sabotage on platforms because they don’t get the results/response they feel they deserve. Artists can do backflips for attention and only sometimes get it, and even then, the translation to lasting fans, ticket sales, record deals and profit margins is far from guaranteed. Big agencies keep reviving the old days of music – reunion tours, giant nostalgic festival lineups – because back when music was only sold in tangible form, people would listen over and over to the same bands and the songs came to really mean something to them. Nowadays, it is truly difficult to make a lasting and sustainable impact. We see more and more small venues folding, and that is a hard thing to watch. But we must continue on in the face of adversity, and hopefully inspire others to do their part to never let the indie music scene die because community support keeps people putting themselves out there. There’s a rare form of connective energy that is passed through the early stages of growth that is absolutely essential to both the performers and the listeners. And that is the point that Tiny Tin Heart is at in the book, they’re creating that energy through their music, fueled by community support in an illegal underground speakeasy.RG: Did you listen to music while writing the book? Are there bands or artists you would recommend to Venice Peach readers?JV: I almost always listen to music while writing… During this first draft I was obsessed with Frank Ocean’s Blonde, which had just dropped at the time. I had Warpaint’s entire repertoire on heavy rotation. These quirky Canadian bands I’d discovered called The Unicorns and Mother Mother. Tame Impala’s first two albums. “Lo-Fi Hip Hop Beats” Youtube playlist as well. RG: The titular Venice Peach is revealed to be a juice and smoothie place. What is your best ever smoothie?JV: OK, I am lazy when it comes to making smoothies and I reeeeeally don’t enjoy paying $20 for one, so I don’t really drink them often… but if there was a Venice Peach Specialty Smoothie, these would be the ingredients:-Frozen white peaches-Almond milk-Dash of fresh mango-Dash of cinnamon -Coconut cream vegan yogurt-2 scoops protein powder-Bee Pollen-Maca Powder-CBD oilAnd it would inexplicably cost $8 so everyone could afford to GET SOME!RG: Your characters face encounters with robotic police, and many aspects of society function under surveillance. They confront the dilemma of whether to reluctantly kowtow to a technocracy, or consider resistance. What is your own relationship to the technological aspects of contemporary life? What, if anything, do you resist?JV: I’ll try to harness my tendency to rant on this subject… but I resist nearly everything. Even dumb things. I’m contrary by nature, and decidedly a luddite. It’s in my blood and my star chart, I think. I’m a triple Taurus. I’ve never used any form of AI that wasn’t forced on me (Google, Meta, looking at YOU). Updates drive me insane and I delay until forced, and then see red about being forced. I’ll never own a Siri or Alexa and only speak to them if absolutely necessary, and they seem to sense my hatred because they never do what I tell them anyway. I fight to do things the hard way because I am a stubborn bull, and I don’t want to get soft, spoiled and lazy, or forget how to do things myself. RG:Bobobo was deeply devoted to a female duck, but she was unfortunately not faithful to him, as she couldn’t resist having offspring each year. It drove him wild but he stayed by her side (or usually in the murky water underneath her).How do you describe your creation, Bobobo? JV: Hehehe… Bobobo is a paranormal creature who willed himself into existence. For years, I’d been playing around with this idea for a children’s book, “Cassandra and the Canal Creature” – but every time I tried to write it, the canal creature just came across as creepy… Venice Peach was finally (and shockingly) the right home for the concept. It turned out to be the complete opposite of a children’s story, the storyline mounting to perhaps the dirtiest scene I have ever written. There is a certain vibe to the canals that I’ve always felt could produce a uniquely magical being, and the canals are both pretty as well as pretty scummy and dirty, and I guess that had to come through in the being’s personality as well. I could not tell you where the name came from. Absolutely no idea. And for some reason, in my head his voice has always been that of the great narrator of Winnie the Pooh, Jim Cummings. RG:It was probably nothing. But the part had come to mean too much at this point. Gerard’s entire future depended on landing this role. The director, Ty Beck, was one of the last few directors worth working with. The industry had completely gone to shit and most productions out there were written by algorithms starring holograms. Gerard was only interested in doing the real thing, and therefore hadn’t sold his image, voice and likeness profile off yet.Which movie would each of your characters choose as their favorite?JV: Really fun question. They’d have to all be classics… Odessa’s favorite movie would be Natural Born Killers. Stevia’s would be Return to Oz. Auggie’s would be Dude, Where’s My Car? Dr. Phil’s would be the original Blade Runner. Bobobo’s would be E.T. Cassandra would dig Tank Girl. Gerard would love industry meta flicks like Tropic Thunder and Bowfinger. And Matt Bogart would claim a tie between Pulp Fiction and Swingers. RG: Classic band tensions and twisted dynamics plague the novel’s group Tiny Tin Heart. Clashes of personality, ego, and music direction arise, as is a common story. How did you approach this aspect? Any real-life bands or artists an influence?JV: Hah! Too many to count … Yes, a life spent collaborating with and observing all sorts of musicians has influenced the way I portray the band members. All writing is a collage, I think, of life experience, your hopes/fears, and what the plotline benefits from. But as far as the matter of whether there are any direct references here, there are not. Each of the members of Tiny Tin Heart is entirely unique, and also a mass conglomeration of musicians who came before them. RG:Venice Peach introduces the concept of superdoom. How does superdoom differ from ordinary doom?JV: I had a lot of fun with the concept of “superdoom on the supermoon…” Feels very SoCal. It’s intended to be silly, but also feels very real as far as the hyperspeed humanity has been entering of late. As a millennial, it has truly been wild to watch the acceleration within the span of my own lifetime. Ordinary doom was for people to speculate about humanity in the 1900s. The 2000s increasingly feel like a superdoomed time, a period in which having optimism for the future gets more and more hard. I look back on my college years and think about how differently I got to envision the future than the kids in college right now, and that feels both sad and special, you know? The world was still holding itself together a little more tightly back in the early 2000s. Then I graduated and went into the previously thriving magazine industry, and things took a downward turn. So I parlayed into film and TV production, which is also somehow in an insanely tumultuous state right now. And that’s just my own experience. So many people in so many industries have been doing the same shitshow shuffle at lightspeed lately. And I feel for the newer generations who may not get to have rosy optimism at any point in their youth. To me, that is the real definition of what superdoom is. RG:Auggie was pissed off. During the Venice Pier portion of their afternoon walk, Cackles the cursed seagull had latched onto Auggie and Rusty. It was understood through local folklore that whomever the gull latched on to would fall victim to hard times. The ugly bird trumpeted his terrible caws of doom while hovering over him and his poor dog, thoroughly creeping them both out. Fishermen pointed and clucked at them sympathetically while the gull’s grim shrieking painted everything with a dark and ominous foreboding.Rusty the Dog, Fonsie the Snake, Cackles the cursed seagull, Pansy the cat: Venice Peach is a damned menagerie. Your animal creations are gifted with some of the most memorable scenes in the book. How do you view the animal presence in Venice Peach?JV: It is an odd and funny animal cast in Venice Peach! I’ve always been obsessed with animals. When I was little, I used to want to be a zookeeper. Animals hold so much charm in their personalities and presence, and I just wanted to honor their contribution to the overall Venice vibe. I have always been a firm believer that animals make everything better and think that certainly extends to fiction as well. Another thing about animals is that they’re hypersensitive, but also immune to our politics and social bullshit, so they are the most clear and unbiased readers of the room, and it’s always so fun to play with that. RG:Venice Peach presents a warped, funhouse mirrored version of contemporary politics and social trends. What roles do satire and absurdity take in your work?JV: A big one, I’d say. I grew up enamored with Mark Vonnegut and Tom Robbins, and their styles imprinted deeply into me. In my opinion, there’s no better way to make sociopolitical commentary than through satirical fiction. It’s a language all of its own, a timeless way to present the times. It’s kind of like drawing a caricature of society, enlarging certain aspects and adding weird flourishes. And as for the absurd – everything is already so absurd these days, it only seemed natural to piggyback off of that. For me, there is terrific tension when you realize you are suddenly immersed in a world where anything can – and probably will – happen. RG:Two months later, his wife had announced that she was having an affair with his best friend and leaving him. That was when Philip officially gave up on partaking in emotions altogether. He surrendered to the betraying nature of human beings, the crushingly individualistic, overwhelmingly capitalist society he lived in, and the numbness that the societal structure demanded in order to survive. He wanted nothing more to do with anything even slightly related to caring. Underlying the wildness of the book is a sense of aching dissatisfaction, and your characters express mixed feelings on the world they inhabit. They are reared on devices, in therapy, struggling to relate to others on even a basic level, and hungering for intellectual stimulation. What do you view as the dark heart of the book?JV: Ah, poor Philip… The psychotherapist who is tragically unable to fix himself. He does, however, make some attempt to break through his own walls eventually… I suppose the dark heart of the book is that humanity is pretty screwed, and things will surely get even more grim, but the truth is that we’ve never really figured it out, have we? No one can point to a time in which things were “sympatico” here on Earth. Even the dinosaurs seem to have done something fatally wrong, hah. So why not break through our innate discomfort and inherited despair to make our best, most honest and brave grab at joy that we can? We shouldn’t let anyone or anything repress our ability to do what we love and be who we truly are. It’s just like the Beastie Boys said, you have to fight for your right to party, you have to fight for your right to get a good vibe going and protect that flame. RG:Ever since the Hollywood zombies had almost captured and converted Gerard into their gruesome and feral kind, he’d been on a junk food sex spree to end all junk food sex sprees. He’d gotten off with only a fractured ankle, and the titanium air-cast he wore to heal triple-time turned out to only help his game. Sympathy was apparently a major turn-on for some women. And he had major survival horniness. It all combined into one perfect sex storm and suddenly there weren’t enough women in the world to satisfy him.Freaky characters mean freaky sex, and your characters approach this with gusto. How did you approach this aspect? Are there any scenes that didn’t make it into the book?JV: Hey, now… Sounds like you want a Venice Peach “Deleted XXX Scenes” black-market chapbook, here. I guess I should get on that in case what’s already in the book isn’t spicy enough for *ahem* some people… No seriously, the coolest thing about publishing with an indie press is that 9 times out of 10, they are down to keep all the good parts. I’ve gotten lucky twice in that department. I’m someone who is always disappointed by authors who skip forward to the next morning right as a scene is getting good, so I like to “put out” in the literary sense. It’s all in there, baby. As for how I approached writing the dirty scenes, it’s hard to say. The sex lives of these characters feels like just another facet of their personalities that’s already there and I’m just pulling up the curtain. RG: Do you have an ideal reader in mind when writing?JV: I think most indie fiction writers are writing for their own amusement, then crossing their fingers and praying that what they enjoy is somewhat marketable and relatable to others. When shopping this book around, one small press told me it was “more on the commercial side” than what they publish. It weirdly gave me hope, even though it was still a rejection. Originally, I wrote this to compete with Netflix and HBO shows on an entertainment and pacing level, because let’s face it, they are the most popular storytelling platforms out there. It’s a good thing writers can easily compete with their budgets, as our imaginations can do anything for free. RG: When you reflect on the writing of the book, what comes to mind? Are there associations of place, people or time?JV: Absolutely. As mentioned, the first draft was born in the fall of 2016. I had shattered my leg skateboarding that previous spring and was finally somewhat healed, so there was a strong feeling of gratitude to be in motion, to have made it through that hard time. I was in love with the show Bojack Horseman, and had never before wished I had been in a writing room to that extent. I was working in production, and some of the people and experiences were inspirational to the book to some degree, so I will always remember what I was working on at the time. RG:Venice Peach is released by Maudlin House. What attracted you to work with them and how have you found the process?JV: I first came upon Maudlin House and publisher Mallory Smart through her very cool calling card; her podcast called Textual Healing. It’s all about the music we listen to while writing, and I was delighted when she agreed to have me on the show. It was spring of 2023 at the time, and I was gearing up for the release of my first novel, Secret Rules to Being a Rockstar, which is about dysfunctional Hollywood musicians in the 90s. It was a great chat, and Mallory was truly supportive of my mission. It left me with a feeling we should work together more. I was excited to blurb her music-centric book I Keep My Visions to Myself last year. Then we got together with two other authors who write about musicians, Claire Hopple and Kirsti MacKenzie, and recorded a group episode of the podcast Rock is Lit thanks to the amazing host Christy Alexander Hallberg. It only seemed like a natural fit, by this point, that my weird book with three musical main characters would find its rightful home at Maudlin House, a music-loving indie press with the motto “Keep Maudlin Weird.” Mallory and her partner (and husband) Bulent have been very open to my ideas on the cover design as well as interior edits. Publishing is such a grueling industry, so it feels like such a gift when you find people who are chill to work with, responsive, and down to go the distance to see your dream through. RG:Fuck the future. Join the freak circus.What’s next for you? JV: I’m actually going to be living in the freak circus all summer… I’m also a drummer and my band Movie Club is going on a “Psychedelic Circus” tour to celebrate the book release. We have dates in Venice (Townhouse, 6/10), San Francisco (Make-Out Room, 6/11), Eugene (Sam Bond’s Garage, 6/12), Portland (No Fun Bar, 6/13), Seattle (Baba Yaga, 6/14), Olympia (The Crypt, 6/15), Bend (Silver Moon, 6/17), Santa Cruz (Sub Rosa, 6/18), and Culver City (Village Well, 7/12). We're also producing a Maudlin House x Movie Club Musical Reading for the 40th anniversary of Printers Row in Chicago at Gallery Cabaret on Saturday, Sept. 6th, 2025. The event will feature over a dozen rockstar readers performing spoken word over Movie Club's live instrumental rock n' roll. The goal behind these “Psychedelic Circus” events we’ve been putting on in Los Angeles (six pretty epic ones so far) is to incorporate a sense of broader community in live events, joining talents that usually get separated in one rocking variety show of sorts. Why shouldn’t writers get to read to live rock music? Or theremin players get to sit in for full band anthems alongside burlesque dancers? Each date will feature local special guest performances, plus I will be doing short readings from Venice Peach over ambient guitar. I hope to meet many fellow freaks fighting the future out on the road. Godspeed.
We happened upon the enormous hole by chance. It was a tremendous hole. The largest I have ever found. Perhaps twenty feet in diameter and located in some woods along the Southern State Parkway. The walls of the hole were perfectly flat and thus of unnatural design, although I cannot say who would have dug such a thing. I could not see to the bottom. I threw a rock in and listened to it bounce against the walls, and listened to the sound grow fainter and fainter and eventually vanish altogether. Of course I urinated in the hole. My need to urinate is why I happened upon the hole in the first place. I found the lack of report unsatisfying.Bladder cleared, I trudged back through the tall grass. Stewart waited in my car’s passenger seat. I give Stewart too much credit: it was not We who found the hole. The hole finding was done by Me and Me alone. If Stewart says otherwise, know that he is a liar and that his generation is brain damaged from lead poisoning. I told Stewart through the window to hold on a bit longer, I needed to make a call. He did not look up from his phone, but gave an okay sign with his thumb and index finger. P. answered. She said, Yes? I said, The hole you are looking for is eastbound off of exit 42. Beyond the grass. Watch for the swaying pine. Then I hung up. Being cryptic was a running joke between P. and I.I returned to the car and told Stewart of the enormous hole. Obviously he wanted to see for himself. I assumed this would be a quick thing, so I trudged again with Stewart in tow. The swaying pine which would possibly not be swaying by the time P. arrived swayed over us. Presently, this pine swayed quite a bit. More so than the other pines, at least. Its plumage was robust. Stewart and I stood at the edge of the enormous hole and gandered.“It makes me wonder,” Stewart said. “This life is full of beauty and mystery and there are so many things that we’ll never find.”Waxing poetic again. There was little in the way of mystery in regards to this hole and even less in the way of beauty. I said, “Howsabout we go back to the car and get out of here. I would like to eat. I am withering away.”“But who would dig this thing?” he asked. “I do not know, Stewart.”“I can’t see the bottom at all.” He went down to his stomach and peered over the edge of the hole with his phone flashlight. “Me either, Stewart.”“I’d like to climb down there and have a look.”“I’d like to leave, Stewart.”“Somebody dug this hole for a reason and I, for one, am itching to discover that reason.”I would never have told Stewart this, but I wished to be long gone before P’s arrival. P. and I have a speckled past and I still to this day find it best to avoid her in person at all cost. Stewart in the mix compounds things. Based on where P. lived and her style of driving, I estimated her arrival to land within the next twenty minutes.“I have three hundred and fifty two meters of climbing rope in my backpack,” Stewart continued. “This pine tree is more than thick enough to support me. Although I don’t like how it’s rocking.”Before I could respond, Stewart began tying the rope to the pine. The pine swayed in a way that could possibly have been interpreted as annoyance, if pines got annoyed. “What is your plan for getting back up?” I asked. The sides of the hole were near perfect in terms of smoothness: this hole-digging was the work of a professional. “I reach the bottom, you untie the tree, you retie me to the car hitch, you pull me out. I thought you were the college boy.”I often grow tired of Stewart, but an unfortunate fact is that we will be together until the bitter end. And I will admit a fantasy of this bitter end glided across my mind as Stewart donned his climbing harness, as he slid the rope through the appropriate hooks and carabiners, as he pulled the rope taught and leaned back against the edge of the hole, and as he hopped back and descended into the cave. Yes, the wicked fantasy glided in a most elegant way as I listened to his feet slap the wall. But despite the occasional fantasy of Stewart’s death, I still love the guy. Those things are not mutually exclusive. I would never, say, loosen the rope from the swaying pine and listen to Stewart plummet to his doom. No, I stood on the edge of the cave and watched him hop his way down. I yelled, “How’s it looking down there, buddy?” My voice echoed and his voice echoed back, “Like a cold, dark hole.”“It is enormous, is it not?”He said, “This hole is of a depth unencountered in my years of hole-diving.” Which is something I knew to be true. “I want a photo next to it when we’re finished,” he said. There was silence, and then he asked, his voice growing feint, “Do you ever wonder if there are irreconcilable differences between the generations?”I lied. I said, “I am unsure, Stewart. I would prefer not. I would prefer that you and I are basically the same. But who knows, the world changes and with it so do we.”I could not make out Stewart’s reply. It grew dark. A red Corvette pulled up behind my car. This red Corvette belonged to P. She got out of the car but kept it running. She stepped into the headlights and I felt small eruptions in my gut. P’s hair is the color of Autumn. She always smells like a fresh batch of snickerdoodles. I still to this day find the scar on her face pleasing in an unconventional way. She paused in the headlights and sashayed. She knew what she was doing. Then she pushed her way through the tall grass and said, “We’re going to have to check ourselves for ticks.” She noticed the climbing rope. “Why in the name of the lord Jesus is Stewart doing that now?” Just then, the rope went slack. For a moment, we thought there had been an accident, but several tugs on the rope indicated that Stewart had in fact reached the bottom. “I admire Stewart’s bravery,” P. continued. “He’s a man who doesn’t shy from risk. A man who knows just what excites a woman. A man with arms muscular from a life of hard work. I’d like to wrap myself around a man his age and climb him like a primate.”I walked to the edge of the hole. I spread my arms out wide. I closed my eyes and fantasized about leaning forward, the rush of wind parachuting my clothes and watering my eyes.“Don’t be ridiculous again,” P. said. “I’m only talking ish.” “I’m just hungry,” I lied. “We can hit that diner you like so much. The one with the pork flambe.”Stewart’s rope continued slacking and tightening. The pine continued to sway.“Don’t you have work to do?” I asked.“A hole this enormous is going nowhere,” P. said.“What do you think is down there?”“Probably a hole lot of nothing. Get it?”Stewart’s rope slacked and tightened in an impatient manner. I find the older generation pushy. They want what they want and they want it now. I untied Stewart’s rope from the swaying pine and retied it to my car hitch and P. showed me how to tie a figure eight. I wanted to yank Stewart out of this hole and be done with the night. I was hungry for pork flambe. I wanted to feast. P. remained at the hole to supervise.Stewart left my car radio on a vintage jazz station. Velvety trombone filled the cab. I switched to four wheel drive and crawled along the shoulder of the parkway. Every couple of feet I braked. If the rope went slack after braking I would know Stewart was out of the hole. I figured that part out by myself because Stewart was right about me being a smart college boy. I turned the jazz off and rolled the windows down so that I would be able to hear of any developments from P. The commuters had already gone home. Cicadas buzzed, a bat skittered overhead, a light breeze carried from the south. It was overall a peaceful scene. In the rearview, I watched Stewart’s rope lit up by my tail lights. The rope pulled against the non-swaying trees and created a sort of pulley system. Stewart only bought quality rope and so there was no worry of fraying, but if I floored the accelerator, something tragic would have happened, or even if perhaps I simply untied the rope. I hit the brake. The rope was still tight. I shifted the car to park. Yes, both options were tempting. But Stewart and I will be together until the bitter end. I shifted to drive and continued on at a steady ten miles per hour. I braked once more and the rope went slack. I got out of the car and heard P. and Stewart calling my name.
My buddy Pilot comes to visit. Says it’ll do him good to get out of town for a couple days—new scenery, change of pace, leave the normal life problems and complications and stresses behind. But also we’ve been wanting and meaning to hang out for a while. The new scenery and change of pace and leaving behind of life’s problems and complications and stresses are all bonus. Icing on the cake, cherry on top. All that. It’s sunny out, blue skies, warm. It is beautiful, in that way that can feel unique and special to the Pacific Northwest. We make pizzas. I got Lili a pizza oven a couple Christmases ago, which means I got us a pizza oven a couple Christmases ago; we’ve made pizza once, sometimes twice a week, every week since. Mostly for ourselves, but also when entertaining. When friends come to town and we replace life’s problems and complications and stresses with food and ease and friendship.Pilot raves about the pizza, and we say we know, because we’ve gotten good at making pizza and we know it. Still. When he raves about it, it makes us proud. We eat and drink and share stories and volley compliments back and forth and round and round.Making food for your friends. Sharing time with loved ones. Beautiful, warm, sunny, Pacific Northwest blue sky days. Getting good at something. Sharing that thing with others. Friends giving you honest, proud compliments. Friends, in general. Gifts, all. Life can be gifts, all the way down, when you let it be.Lili asks Pilot how his summer has been so far, and he says he’s been writing a lot. Lili knows that, because Pilot’s been sending me new stories as he’s been writing them, and I keep telling her about them, but she nods and tells him that’s great.I can’t publish any of them cause they’re all about my divorce, Pilot says. But it's all that's coming out right now, he says.I remember that, I say. Meaning, getting divorced. Meaning, it being all I could think or talk about. They’re really great, I say. Each is more fun and stupid and inventive than the last, I say. As a compliment to Pilot and also to Lili, though she knows. I’ve said that to her before, too. We have a few more beers, and tell some more stories, about writing and divorce, about friendship and food, about life and art.
***
The next day, we have a lazy morning. In the afternoon, we walk down to the waterfront for happy hour. Oysters and tuna tartar and beef skewers and pineapple shrimp and cocktails. It’s happy hour, so everything is discounted, but we’re on the waterfront and so everything is expensive. We complain about the prices, while ordering more than we can eat and second and third rounds of drinks. We each agree when someone else says how beautiful the day is; we each, when it is our turn, say how wonderful life can be. Full and a little tipsy, we walk along the waterfront and Pilot says he really wants to see an orca. Do you think we’ll see an orca? he says. How magical would it be if we see an orca? he says. I guess it isn’t really orca season, is it? he says. I kinda feel like it would solve all my problems and complications and stresses and be magical if we get to see an orca, he says. I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen an orca here along this waterfront. It feels both like I have and haven’t. It feels both impossible and likely. I tell Pilot we’ve seen a few seals swimming around in the water and that always feels special. He asks if there’s sea lions here too, and I say I think there are but I can’t remember for sure. We don’t see an orca.We don’t see any seals or sea lions either. It’s ok. We go out for tiki drinks, and we share more stories and we re-share the same stories we’ve already shared and we recap everything from earlier in the day, and the night before. Lili is giggling her drunk giggle and Pilot is glowing like he doesn’t have a care in the world and my face is warm like I probably got a little too much sun.At our table inside the tiki bar, we’re on an island, or in a boat, or under water. Maybe all three. We’re pirates and sailors and explorers and mermaids and mermen and sea captains. We order another round. We cheers orcas.The walk and the day and our lives and the the view of the water and the sun on our faces and the tiki bar and sharing stories and sharing meals and getting drinks together and escaping our lives for a couple of days and friendship—ours, specifically, but also just friendship, in general— and getting to tourguide a friend around somewhere you love? Gifts. Magic! There can be magic anywhere—everywhere—if you know where to look. That isn’t really what this story is about though.
***
Revisiting this story months after first writing it, I’m unsure what it really is about. I’m unsure if I knew at the time, when I first wrote it, and have since forgotten; or maybe I was always unsure and I wrote that sentence as something of a reminder to figure it out at some point during revisions; or maybe I was unsure, but I was ok with that, and I wrote the sentence just because I liked the sound and feel and idea of it.I’m leaving it now.I like the sound and feel and idea of it.And what it’s really about isn’t really up to me, anyway. That’s for you. To decide, or to decide that it isn’t up to you either and that it doesn’t really matter.That’s ok, too.
***
The next day Pilot returns home, and Lili and I take the ferry to one of the nearby islands. She’s never been on a ferry before, and I’m reminded how special it can be to experience something with someone for their first time. The ferry ride is fun and cool, and the views are beautiful, and it all feels a little like make-believe. And then watching all of that through Lili’s eyes, reflected on her face and in her smile and radiating out from her whole body, makes everything even many-fold times true. On the island, we drive along the coast and comment on the tide being so low. We walk through a farmers market; we eat lunch and have a drink; we walk through the downtown like tourists to whom everything is new and discoverable and anything is possible. We drive across the island to a park and we go on a hike through the woods and then we walk along the beach. We see a sign about local sea animals. The sign tells us about the seals and sea lions and porpoises and orcas in these waters. The sign places them on a scale of how frequent they can be seen, from common to occasional to seldom. We drive back across the island and get another drink and another meal. We drive along the coast going the other way and comment on the tide now being so high. Magic! we say. Magic! we both believe, in this moment, even if not in others.
***
In that previous draft of this story, Pilot was Kevin. Because the stuff in this story that actually happened, happened with my buddy Kevin, when he came to visit.I’m unsure why the change.When I first wrote this story, I was in the middle of a burst of writing. Every few days, and sometimes every day, I’d write a new short story, inspired by something Kevin, or our other friend D.T., texted to our groupchat. I’d copy and paste it into a Google doc and use it as a springboard into another 600-1800 word piece of autofiction about us, and writing, and friendship, and telling stories and life and seeing art and magic and beauty everywhere you look. D.T. texted that he needed a break from life, and so I wrote a story about a guy quitting his job and driving around the country, visiting friends and meeting strangers, buying a boat and learning how to sail, becoming a follower of different religions and denouncing others, all looking for meaning and for purpose. Kevin texted that divorce was like God sawing off parts of your body, and so I wrote a story about God telling a woman to saw off her partner’s limbs, adding in narrative references to the story of God telling Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac. God didn’t tell the woman in my story to sacrifice her partner, only to saw off his limbs, and also He didn’t stop her at the last minute like He did with Abraham. When I told my girlfriend about that one, I expected her to make fun of me for writing story after story after story after story where Kevin and D.T. keep popping up, but instead she glommed onto the surreal body horror part. Which surprised me, because normally she looked at me like what the fuck are you talking about? when I described one of my more surreal or speculative stories, but also because I’d forgotten that was even what the story was about. I’d gotten so distracted by how Kevin and D.T. keep popping up in them. She told me she used to have this idea for a story about someone cutting off their skin so it would grow back healthier and blemish free.I could write that story! I said, and went and got my laptop and opened up a blank Google doc and started typing. In the story, the narrator cuts off his skin so it will grow back healthier and blemish free. He works from home and orders delivery and never leaves the house, waiting to reenter the world as a whole new version of himself. But his skin never grows back. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to make of this miscalculation. Doesn't have any idea how to make sense of this world at all, now that he thinks about it. He has an idea. He sits down and writes a story and when he gets stuck, these two characters, his friends, Kevin and D.T., appear out of nowhere in the story and tell him what to do next, or they do something funny, or they say some non sequitur that doesn’t literally tell him what to do next and isn’t technically funny, but it makes him laugh and gives him an idea for how to proceed. He finishes the story and sends it to the Kevin and D.T. in his story.I sent the story to the Kevin and D.T. in my actual life.Is this your whole thing now? D.T. texted.I like it, Kevin texted. I didn’t say I didn’t like it, D.T. texted.I like it, too, I texted. They’re fun. I keep trying to write something fun and stupid and inventive, I texted. But every story just keeps ending up being earnest and nostalgic and open-hearted.But that’s fun and stupid and inventive, too, Kevin texted. That’s just your version. I wrote the bonkers version and yours is just a little happier and like you had a good day, he texted.Are they just dumb and repetitive though? I texted.They feel like iterations, but not really repetitive, Kevin texted.And so what if they are repetitive, D.T. texted.The so what and also the word iterations gave me another idea and I wrote a story about a guy writing a story about a guy writing a story about a guy writing a story. I lost track of how many levels or layers of story-within-a-story it was. I told my girlfriend about the story, describing the story itself and also my writing it, and how I sent it to Kevin and D.T. and they said it was earnest and nostalgic and open-hearted, and how that surprised me. I told her about how writing is weird, how you’ll have one idea and start writing it, but then it will become something else without you meaning it to, sometimes without you even realizing it, and she looked at me like I was stupid.She knew all that.I’d told her some version of that a million times.I kept writing stories like this. I didn’t know what to do with them; they felt too meta for anyone else to care, but they were so fun and Kevin and D.T. said they were fun and when I told my girlfriend I finished another and described it to her she’d roll her eyes and look at me like you’re so dumb or like what the fuck are you talking about? but also she’d say it sounded fun, and she’d laugh, and it would light up her face and the room and our lives and the world and God would smile down on us and say, Aaron, that one was even more fun and stupid and inventive than your last, and also even more earnest and open-hearted.And then, time passed, and I revisited these stories. This story. I again feared it was dumb and repetitive, but I also liked the idea of it being in conversation with some others I’d written. So I changed Kevin to Pilot.Pilot is the name I sometimes use for a best friend character in my stories. The Pilot character is usually a fictionalized version of one of my friends, though not any one of them specifically. It rotates. Sometimes it's an amalgamation. It’s never my friend who is a pilot, though. That would feel too on the nose. In the last story I wrote about a character inspired by my friend who is a pilot, his name was Matt. That isn’t his name, though it is the name of another of my friends. My friend Matt has appeared in a couple essays I’ve written, but I don’t think ever a fiction, so I’ve never changed his name to anything. He made an appearance in a piece of fiction by my ex that was kind of about me, and she changed his name to Luke. He jokes about that sometimes. But then, I couldn’t help myself, so now there’s all these sections that are still and again about Kevin and D.T.It is kind of dumb, and repetitive. Or iterative. And I don’t know what it’s “about.” But it feels fun. And just might be the bonkers story I’d been chasing. Though maybe even just thinking that means it’s actually the most earnest and nostalgic and open-hearted. It’s the most everything. Which is maybe what the story is about. Fun and stupid and inventive, or earnest and nostalgic and open-hearted, every story seemed to be about how, every now and then, if you’re paying attention, if you’re open to it, the whole world can be about anything and everything.
***
On the ferry ride home from the island, Lili and I go to the top deck and watch the island recede behind us. The sun is starting to set and it’s bouncing off the water and everything is lit up in gold. There’s a whale off the right of the ferry, a voice alerts us over a loudspeaker. Everyone on the ferry runs to the right side of the boat, hoping to see the orca. My girlfriend gets there first. I saw it! she says. I saw the whale!We’re all staring at the water, staring into the sun bouncing off the water, looking around, looking for a quick glimpse of something to prove that magic is real.I see something in the water. It submerges, surfaces a little further away, then submerges again. A seal or sea lion, probably; a fin of a porpoise, possibly; an orca, maybe even. I keep watching and watching and watching and watching and watching but don’t see anything else. I wonder if Lili saw the same thing I did, or something else. I wonder if she saw the orca and I missed it, or if she saw a seal or sea lion but wanted it to be a whale and so believed it was, or if I saw a whale but am too doubtful and so believed it wasn’t. The same voice over the loudspeaker now tells us that we are almost to shore and to return to our vehicles. Our trip and our journey and our day is almost over.But first I close my eyes. I feel the sun on my face and the crisp air on my skin. I’m silent and still and unthinking.I open my eyes and see an orca, and then another, and another, and another, and another. They’re everywhere. Cresting, submerging, spraying water up through their blowholes, swimming all around us. I watch and I smile and I laugh.I close my eyes again, and when I open them, the whales are gone. Just like that. We return below deck and get in our car and wait to be told when it is our turn to exit the ferry, back to the mainland, back to our normal lives.
Kevin M. Kearney’s latest novel FREELANCE(Rejection Letters, 2025) is a dystopian thriller. It is a psychological profile of loneliness in the age of OnlyFans. It is a condemnation of AI and the gig economy. It is the story of a young man’s search for purpose, part character study and part surreal, page-turning romp. Above all, it is a lot of fun. The novel follows Simon, a driftless 19-year-old driver for the rideshare app HYPR, whose world is upended when the app offers him a seemingly life-changing opportunity. This combination of breadth, emotional acuity and fast-moving plot is nothing new for Kearney. His debut novel HOW TO KEEP TIME (Thirty West, 2022) is a portrait of marriage and family that reads like a mystery, with a dose of New Jersey folklore thrown in for good measure. In short, his books do a lot. Ahead of the publication of FREELANCE on May 31, I connected with Kearney over video call to discuss his writing process, building a universe across books and why Philadelphia is the perfect setting for a sci-fi noir. Our conversation has been lightly edited for clarity. Leo Vartorella: So FREELANCE is a book that touches on a lot of big themes. You’ve got AI, the gig economy, and coming of age as a young man on the internet to name a few. Did you set out to tackle all these themes from the beginning or did they kind of come up organically as you were writing the book?Kevin M. Kearney: I think the short answer is no. I had the idea to write about an Uber type driver. I thought that would make for a good narrative conceit, because you've got this character who, by the necessity of his job, has to interact with all these different people throughout the course of the day. So as a writer, it's entertaining, because you can just say, well, who would I like to show up next? Pretty much anyone with a smartphone in Philly could show up in his back seat. So what does that look like? It kind of started as a game, just to play and see what happens. And then I started realizing that it could be something larger, and it could probably be a novel. So that’s when some of those themes started showing themselves. Some of them were obvious in retrospect, but at the time they kind of came out of the storytelling.I left teaching and moved across the country in 2022, and I also started writing this book in August 2022 as soon as I moved to California. At first, I thought I was just writing this story about this rideshare driver. Very quickly I realized, oh, I'm actually writing about teaching, and I'm processing what it means that I'm no longer in the classroom. And then I also realized, oh, I'm writing about Philly because I'm no longer in Philly, and I'm processing what that city is or what my experience with it was. And then I very quickly realized, oh, all the things I'm writing about teaching are actually about work. LV: And what about Simon in particular? What drew you to him as a character and how did he start to take shape for you?KK: I taught high school for 10 years in Philly. I taught at this all-boys Catholic school that I also attended as a student, which is a whole other story. I had a lot of students throughout that decade who were a lot like Simon, kids who are a little over their heads, kids who maybe don't know what they don't know, but who are just trying to forge a path and figure out who they are and who they want to be. So I think that was the main inspiration. I felt like I'd interacted with this kid many, many times and the more I wrote about it, I realized at various points in my life, I had also been that kid.LV: From a construction standpoint, I really admire how you write chapters. They are always building momentum and leaving me as a reader wanting more, and I feel like you really know how to end them in a satisfying way without it feeling too on the nose. What do you look to accomplish in a chapter and how do you think about them as narrative units?KK: That's a great question, and I appreciate you saying that, because it's something that I have really worked on. You use the word unit, and I think that's the perfect way to describe it. I haven't thought about it in that way, but that's absolutely accurate. It is its own thing, right? It’s a living, breathing element in and of itself. It's not the same thing as a short story because it’s pushing along this much larger narrative. So I think of it more like a joke, like in the context of a sketch or a stand-up set. Sometimes a joke can stand on its own, but a lot of times they are much more satisfying and a lot funnier in the context of the larger thing, but they are also units that can exist on their own, because there's a premise, there's a setup, and then there's a punchline. And so I think when I'm writing a chapter, I'm always hoping that there's a buildup, there's a setup, and then there is some sort of punchline, even though a lot of times it's not funny. But there's something about how the end of a chapter lands that not only feels satisfying – you could close the book, if you want, and feel like an idea has been realized – but that hopefully it’s going to make you want to turn the page, because you're going to see that replicated in the next chapter and the next.LV: To speak about plot and momentum more generally, this book really zips along. We could use the phrase page turner. How do you think about plot as you're writing? Are you an outliner or are you figuring it out as you go?KK: I appreciate that, because that's something I think about a lot. I love page turners. I think for some people, that's seen as less than, like it’s a trait of genre fiction that maybe certain literary types kind of turn their nose up at. But I think it's really admirable and quite difficult to keep it moving and to make it feel entertaining and engaging enough to keep someone constantly turning that page. In terms of plot overall, I think for a long time I am writing scenes and just figuring out who the character is. And my process, when I first start something, is I'm just writing completely fragmented scenes, and I don't exactly know who the characters are, I don't exactly know where it's going. Sometimes just a paragraph, and then sometimes that's several paragraphs, and then maybe a sentence, but I'm just trying to get as many things down on the page as possible. And then over time, those connections start to make themselves more obvious to me, and I can start to see the threads between those seemingly disconnected fragments, and then I can start piecing things together. Then I can put together a pretty broad outline of where the story starts, where it's going to go next, and where, ultimately, I hope that it winds up. As the process goes on and things become more refined, I get a pretty detailed outline, and especially when I'm revising drafts, I'm outlining pretty intensely and doing reverse outlines to see if the story architecture actually holds up and makes sense.LV: In both of your books, a key element of that architecture is the way you deploy shifts in point of view. You don't really seem restricted about how you do it or when you do it, and I think it works very effectively. Sometimes you come back to a character, or sometimes like with Simon's parents or Tamika, we might just spend one chapter with them. How do you think about when and how you're shifting point of view?KK: Well, I think part of it is just like a very dumb reader view of it, which is that as soon as it starts to feel boring, hearing from the same person, that's usually a sign for me that I need to start moving in another direction. In the reverse outline that I mentioned, it’s one of the main things that I'm looking at. So when I'm reading the first full draft of a project, I ignore whatever previous outline I had, and as I'm reading it and marking it up, I'm outlining it as it exists on the page. So here's what happens in one chapter and here's whose perspective it's from, or here are the characters who are involved in the scene. And that allows me to then have a Google Doc that's pretty much just one page, and I can see I've got this character's perspective for eight chapters in a row. I’m always asking myself, is this interesting or has this become stale or mundane? Is this balanced structurally? Just trying to look at it all as objectively as possible.LV: I think some of the strongest characters across both your books are the parents. One element of the parent-child relationship that you explore nicely is intergenerational communication. Beyond their family connection, parents and children are products of different eras trying to figure each other out. Especially in a book like FREELANCE, why was it so important to give voice to Simon's parents?KK: That’s a great question, because someone who read an early draft said they thought I should cut the parents, there’s no need to hear from them. So I went back and tried to see if that would be possible, and I just thought that it would be totally unrealistic to think that there's this 19-year-old kid who had all these struggles, whose parents don't have any window into his life. I mean, obviously that type of person exists, but I think that that's a pretty rare experience now, considering who Simon is and where it's coming from. So I thought that it was essential. Also, I mentioned earlier that I had taught so many kids who were like Simon, and I inevitably met all their parents because they were failing out of school, or they were socially struggling in some way. So I would be emailing with these parents or talking with them on the phone or sitting with them in guidance counselor meetings or parent teacher conferences, and I really felt for these people, even though sometimes I could see how their parenting was maybe facilitating or passively encouraging their kids’ struggles. But, you know, they're just people who are trying to figure out what's wrong with their kid, or where maybe they went wrong with their kid. They're really grasping at straws and trying to fix this problem that is way more complicated than a simple fix.LV: Yeah, I mean, it's believable that there's a 19-year-old Simon who's going through life and not thinking about his parents, but that there are parents who are thinking about him is the important perspective that really adds a roundness to the book.KK: Thank you. Yeah, I mean, I'm sure that my therapist would have something to say about this, but I always find that I'm writing about parents, always writing about work. LV: Throw Catholicism in there and you’ve got the trifecta.KK: [Laughs] Right, and I'm always writing about a Catholic school. That always works its way in.LV: I feel like Cassie is a character who grows increasingly important as FREELANCE progresses. How crucial do you think her perspective is in a book that's otherwise about this driftless young man?KK: Yeah, I think it's crucial. She’s the wise character, not that she's perfect by any means. I don't think anyone in the book, or in life, is perfect, but she sees through all the things that hamstring Simon and a lot of the other characters, and she realizes that defining your identity by your profession is a losing game. It's a trap. But also defining your identity based on social capital, like maybe Dylan does, is also a trap. So that scene with her and Maya at the end, I think that is the crux of not only her arc, but the book as a whole. She’s not even a mother: she's Cassie. And even that name is a construction. Even that is artificial. She is this energy, this spirit, for lack of a better word. All the other things are artificial, and I think she sees through that, whereas Simon is really hung up on how he's perceived by others and whether or not he's successful enough.LV: Speaking of how he’s perceived by others, Simon lives with a group of privileged post-college kids who feel like they are figuring out their lives, but they're all on a path to security and success that is very foreign to Simon, whose trajectory is much more precarious. Tell me about putting Simon in a house with these people. Why was that important?KK: I think the first reason is that Philly is filled with people like that. It would be fair to say that I have been that person at times too, who's sort of poor but not poor, right? Sort of cosplaying poverty because you just graduated college. So for one, it felt realistic. If you're writing about people in their 20s in Philly, that's a not insignificant portion of the population. It was also supposed to echo Simon's experience in high school. A very elite school that’s in the city but not necessarily of the city. And I think it’s a dynamic he could look at and wonder if his whole life is going to feel outside of these people, removed from them and completely isolated when he tries to relate to them about seemingly normal things.LV: Staying with Philly for a sec, something I noticed in HOW TO KEEP TIME and FREELANCE is a similar arc for the characters where they go through a lot of shit in Philly, and the city kind of spits them out into Jersey. What is it about each of these places and the relationship between them that makes them so compelling to write about?KK: Yeah, that's a great question. I think that a lot of people in Philly, and maybe even a lot of people in New Jersey, view Jersey as this other planet. Even across the country, when I mention to people that I grew up in New Jersey, they think of a different New Jersey than the one that I grew up in. I grew up in South Jersey, which is like a Philadelphia suburb that very quickly becomes farmland and woods.Philly is very strange in its own ways, very haunted in its own ways. I think New Jersey feels like a counterpart to that. It’s also very strange, but in different ways, and very haunted in different ways. And it feels like a place that you could be exiled to. With Mercer in HOW TO KEEP TIME, that's the place where he's trying to get his head on straight and figure things out. And for Simon in FREELANCE, that's where he's cordoned off, a purgatory of sorts.LV: You mentioned you started writing FREELANCE after you had moved to California. Compared to the process of writing your first book, how was it different writing about Philly and Jersey from across the country?KK: With HOW TO KEEP TIME, the only way that I could think to do that was that fragmentary process I was talking about, taking all these seemingly disconnected scenes and making them work in a narrative. A lot of it was my day-to-day experience in the city or in the Pine Barrens, things I noticed, things that stood out to me – pretty much notes – then fictionalizing them and putting them in this very dramatic narrative. So I was able to, in real time, see something and then immediately put it into the story.Being 3000 miles across the country and trying to write about the place, that was about mining my memory. And I think the result of that is a more heightened or surreal version of the city. And when I started to realize that, I thought, oh, it would be cool to try and make this feel like a noir or a suspenseful thriller. So I started reading Raymond Chandler books to try and see how you make it feel like there are shadows everywhere, something always lurking around the corner.LV: I love Chandler.KK: Yeah, I hadn't read him before, and when I moved to California, I thought I should read a bunch of California books. Chandler was one of the things that seemed the most obvious, so I read The Big Sleep and The High Window. And I was thinking I should write a sci-fi noir, so I was reading those Chandler books and then, in quick succession, also read Neuromancer and the novelization of 2001: A Space Odyssey, which I'd never read before. It’s really fun. So I was using my memory of not just what I moved away from, but also Philadelphia in 2010 when I first moved there as an adult, and then trying to infuse it with these hyper-real or surreal elements that sci-fi and noir allow.I also read this book called Hustle and Gig by Alexandria Ravenel. It's a sociological study of gig work including Uber, Airbnb, Task Rabbit, and a company called Kitchensurfing. It was super helpful, because it gave me actual data and experiences of people who have gone through this that were vetted by an academic. Because I was also reading tons of forum posts, subreddits from Lyft and Uber drivers, to get a sense of what the job is actually like on the ground. But it was nice to have the academic text to complement that and verify things. Because I think there's a lot of bluster on these forums, which are incredible texts in and of themselves. They are fascinating to read, because, for one, they're not written with any sort of artistic pretense. They're really just written a lot of times to blow off some steam or to talk some shit. And I think that's refreshing to read – something that is so intentionally anti-intellectual. There is no hoping that someone thinks they're smart because they wrote this. They’re doing it to express a feeling. I'm fascinated by digital texts like that in general, stumbling upon something on the internet that is made public for literally the entire world to see, and yet you still feel like this is a private document that you're not supposed to have seen. I love that. So then playing around with writing my own, it was fun. In terms of reader experience, I thought it was a nice way to break up the narrative and hit refresh every once in a while. Also, it allowed for a lot of indirect exposition.LV: You’ve mentioned how Catholicism and Catholic school are themes in both of your books. What impact does religion have on the lives of your characters?KK: I wish I had some thematic reason for why I write about Catholic characters, and, more specifically Irish-Catholic characters, but I think at the end of the day I’m writing from my own immediate experience. I also think there’s a lot of strange ethnic traditions that have nothing to do with religion but everything to do with Catholic or Irish-Catholic identity. In HOW TO KEEP TIME, it's the inability to say the thing – the absolute deferral to silence whenever something gets potentially uncomfortable. And I think that animates a lot of the tension between Simon and his parents. His dad in particular can't bring himself to say that his son is depressed, because what if that sets him on this certain path that's going to lead to all these other problems that could have been avoided if we had just not said that, right? His mom is more open, but probably too much. She’s probably overbearing with the amount that she's willing to say the thing. I don't know, it's something I constantly plug into, and I have found that there's no shortage of inspiration with writing about that world.LV: Speaking of HOW TO KEEP TIME, I was very happy to see Mercer make a cameo in FREELANCE. It’s not a particularly important episode for Simon, but it felt like a pretty revealing coda to see where Mercer is now, and kind of worked like an aftershock that brought me back to the world of that book. Why did you want both of these books to take place in the same universe?KK: Well, I think you describing it as an aftershock is incredible. That’s the effect that I was looking for. I love writers who build universes and then slowly expand them over the course of their bibliography. When I was in high school reading Vonnegut and burning through his books, seeing Kilgore Trout appear in multiple places, Eliot Rosewater too, I just thought, wow, this is so cool that a writer gets to do that. That they get to build this entire world.LV: Reading Vonnegut in high school and hitting your second Kilgore Trout mention – nothing can match that high.KK: Totally. I also love Jennifer Egan and I think she does that really well. She has built a universe of all these characters that start out in A Visit from the Goon Squad, and then they show up in a number of her short stories published after that, and then she wrote sort of like a sequel, but it's all about these very seemingly minor, peripheral characters from the first book. I think that's just so exciting as a reader and as a writer. It's incredible that you get to build your own universe, not just for a single book, but one that lives throughout an entire body of work. It's really fun and hopefully it maybe adds to a deeper sense of realism for a reader who's following book to book. This story does not begin on page one and end when you close the book, it actually continues. I have another idea that I'm working on right now, and it's about St. Luke's, the Catholic school that is in HOW TO KEEP TIME and FREELANCE, so that might be another way to kind of continue the universe.
Israel Defense Force (IDF) Soldier: “What the fuck are you doing?”Banksy: “You’ll have to wait until it’s finished.”IDF Soldier (to subordinates): “Safeties off!” —Banksy’s account of painting the West Bank wall, 2005Blue and white guard rails shepherded us from a bus stop toward the low, sprawling Checkpoint 300 gate complex outside of Bethlehem where my friend and I planned to cross from Israel on foot into the West Bank. The imposing concrete West Bank wall stretched endlessly in both directions, reminding me of photos I’d seen of the Berlin Wall, although at 26 feet high, this border barrier stands three times taller, constructed from thin concrete slabs, each ten feet wide. Every so often a military turret tower split the wall panels. Near the top, wire netting hammocked outward to catch anything thrown by protesters on the West Bank side. It was spring of 2011—six years after Banksy first tagged the wall. Back in August of 2005, when Banksy traveled to Palestine after February’s Sharm el-Sheikh Summit signaled an end to the Second Intifada, he had already gained international recognition for his satirical anti-establishment installations in Bristol and for major exhibitions in Sydney, Los Angeles, and London. Back then, in 2005, the West Bank wall stood largely blank, and though he wasn’t the first to tag the wall, he was the first artist with any modicum of renown to attack the structure, so Banksy’s nine stenciled images on the wall transformed him into a worldwide icon. That day in 2011, my friend and I—both American college students studying abroad for a semester in Jerusalem—set out to hike the border wall to find Banksy’s work, the precise locations of which had eluded us during the minimal Google searching we’d done the previous day at our university in Jerusalem. We knew Banksy had left his mark on the wall several years previous, that he was a renowned contemporary artist, that his artwork on the wall had simultaneously increased international scrutiny of the West Bank wall and contributed to kickstarting a tradition of graffiti on that structure—all of which we hoped to witness now that we lived a mere bus-ride away. On the other side of the checkpoint, I looked back at the plain concrete wall above the border complex and to my surprise, immediately saw the first Banksy installation, recognizable from my googling. A faded, black, dashed block line crept vertically up the wall, then turned at a right angle and traveled about forty-five feet before an angled turn downward: a pair of “cut along the dotted line” scissors appeared just to the right of the first corner angle. Originally, the line made a huge box, the bottom of which was painted onto the ground itself outside the checkpoint, meaning we’d walked across it without noticing. Sometime before 2011 when I visited, though, Israel had installed more fencing for crowd control, obstructing full view of the image. By 2017, Israel painted the wall sections at this checkpoint white, fully erasing this Banksy installation. Though it saddens me that street artwork can be destroyed like this, the first Banksy artwork that I ever witnessed in person demonstrates a couple key facets of this artistic medium: 1) graffiti exists always in temporal form. Existent street art can at any moment be defaced, replaced, or erased due to the public nature of the installation. And because the initial act of painting is in itself a defacement, what’s to stop further defacement by another graffiti artist, or for the owner of the defaced property to attempt to return the “canvas” to its original form? 2) all graffiti enacts a political message, no matter how innocuous the message might seem—at minimum, graffiti evidences a rejection of authority, of hierarchy, of societal norms. In the case of this dotted line installation, however, Banksy’s message tagged onto the wall an invitation to viewers to remove the very purpose of the wall, to open up the landscape once more, to return the wall to not-wall. So of course the state of Israel would paint this checkpoint section of the wall white. I’m just shocked they allowed the dotted line to exist for the six years from which Banksy painted it to the moment I viewed it. The only West Bank Palestinians that Israel allows to cross the border are women, Christians, or Muslim men over the age of 23, married, with at least one child, who possess an officially documented job in Israel—a measure that is supposed to reduce terror attacks in Israel. Until October of 2023, each morning, before four a.m., 70,000-160,000 Palestinians with jobs in Israel lined up at one of twelve border crossings. It could take between two and five hours to cross. The fencing at Checkpoint 300 controlled the thousands of workers who have grown riotous in the past when the Israel Defense Force (IDF) stalls checkpoint crossing. Outside writers and scholars, as well as many Palestinians theorize that border delays are a tactic for getting Palestinians fired from jobs in Israel, while others guess the process is made arduous to keep Palestinians discouraged, stressed about catching rides. Since most of these workers pay monthly brokerage fees to secure jobs and work permits, if they miss a day of work, they end up owing money. I myself once experienced a crossing delay when IDF soldiers refused to let an elderly Palestinian couple cross the border because they each carried a plastic grocery bag full of pita bread, which the soldiers deemed beyond one day’s food supply—a limitation to control trade. As the couple argued to get their pitas across, the IDF soldiers halted all crossings for 20 minutes, laughing through the bulletproof glass as the couple argued to no effect and eventually gave up, walking back into the West Bank. This food import/export limitation is one example of policies that create an economic desert within the West Bank, which has limited capability for international trade given its lack of political autonomy from Israel. With minimal prospects for export, 71 percent of workers in the West Bank work in the service industry and there’s a 17 percent unemployment rate. Per capita, the average yearly income is only $4,300 a person, so money spent by tourists or foreign visitors is highly sought after, something I was clueless of as a student back in 2011. Since the Hamas attacks on October 7, 2023 and the ongoing genocide that Israel is conducting in Gaza, the situation in the West Bank has become even more grim, as the state of Israel revoked 160,000 work permits for West Bank Palestinians—an economic reduction of $370,000,000 per month for Palestinians in the West Bank—a measure that’s hard to frame as anything but an economic punishment on the larger Palestinian population for the actions of Hamas. Since implementing this “security measure” on the West Bank’s population, some work permits have been reissued, though the majority have not. Construction of the West Bank wall began during the Second Intifada (2000-2005) in what the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Israel (MFA) described, in an official PowerPoint made public in 2000, as a “temporary defensive measure to block terrorist infiltration” [emphasis theirs]—a response to suicide bombings that wracked Jerusalem after Ariel Sharon, a controversial Israeli politician, visited the Temple Mount surrounded by hundreds of security guards. Statistically, violent attacks from the West Bank have decreased in Israel since its construction. According to the MFA, between 2000 and 2003 there were 73 terror attacks in Israel, killing 900 Israelis, whereas after the wall’s construction, between 2004 and 2008, there were only 15 officially designated acts of terror in Israel—killing 48. However, it seems impossible to pin decreased terror attacks directly on wall construction while ignoring hundreds of other pertinent factors—such as the end of the Second Intifada also mirroring this decrease in violent attacks. But even if the barrier itself were the primary cause of the decreased number of attacks, could that justify the wall’s oppressive effect on local Palestinian populations? This question becomes even more necessary to ask because, contrary to the MFA’s initial statement, the West Bank wall is anything but temporary. In that same PowerPoint circa-2000, the MFA stated that the barrier would not: “establish a border of any kind,” “annex Palestinian lands to Israel,” “change the legal status of any Palestinians,” “prevent Palestinians from going about their lives,” or “create permanent facts on the ground.” Another slide reads: “The Palestinians will not be cut off from their commercial and urban centers,” and “Every effort will be made to avoid causing hardship and interference with their daily lives.” These statements juxtapose later MFA slides that read [again, emphasis theirs]: “Death caused by terrorism is permanent; Inconvenience caused by the fence is temporary,” and “The right of Palestinians to freedom of movement cannot take precedence over the right of Israelis to live. Saving lives must come first.” This vastly oversimplifies, balancing several handfuls of deaths with systemic inconvenience doled out along ethnic lines—hardly an equitable comparison. And still today, the West Bank wall remains. And it’s not just the West Bank wall that inhibits Palestinian freedom of movement: in May 2025, the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs published a report documenting 849 movement obstacles and 288 road gates (checkpoints) imposed on Palestinians in the West Bank by the state of Israel, restricting the movement of the population at a micro level, compared to the wall. Obviously life has value, but at what point should large-scale oppression brought about by a wall no longer be categorized as an “inconvenience,” but shift into the realm of ongoing societal death? In 2004, the International Court of Justice deemed the West Bank wall a “breach” of “international humanitarian law.” That same year, the Red Cross echoed this ruling, characterizing the barrier as breaking the Geneva Convention, saying that the wall “runs counter to Israel’s obligation under [international humanitarian law] to ensure the humane treatment and well-being of the civilian population living under its occupation.” Despite the MFA’s insistence that the barrier would not cause the above-mentioned ill-effects, the wall has profoundly affected Palestinians in nearly all the ways that their PowerPoint promised it would not, splitting families, dividing land, and obstructing access to jobs and resources, creating horrific living conditions for Palestinians in the West Bank. As I stumbled the length of the wall in 2011, I’d yet discovered little of the wall’s injustice; I was an American college student, nearly oblivious to any nuanced comprehension of the concrete canvas to my right—but the imposition of the drab structure, how it blocked out the land, how the looming gray cement contrasted the deep blue sky above, felt heavy, oppressive. Plastic grocery bags whipped about, snaking across the pavement, blowing up into the air, and catching on chunks of jagged cinder blocks dotting the landscape, evoking the slightest sliver of a sense that I did not understand what I was seeing, that I had no conception of the horrific effects of this structure, of the pain and invalidation that it imposed upon those living their days in its shadow. A third of a mile from Checkpoint 300 the graffiti grew thick—phrases scrawled everywhere: “Welcome to Soweto;” “I hate Israel;” “No Christ, No Peace—Know Christ, Know Peace;” “Fuck Israel;” “I Want My Ball Back…;” “‘I Will Cut You’—Bon Qui Qui;” “Je Suis Le Palestinian;” and “Leave Your Rights at the Checkpoint.” A light-blue streak of paint stretched as far as I could see in both directions, as if someone had walked along the wall with a paint roller stretched out at shoulder-height. In one place, a graffiti rhinoceros “burst” through the wall; this artist had come after the painter of the light blue stripe because they’d framed their work by modifying the line into a ribbon swirling down both sides of the rhino. As my friend and I trudged the wall, an image caught my eye, only one concrete panel wide, almost hidden in an unintelligible mish-mash of color. Another Banksy: a simple monochrome stencil of two children playing with a beach pail and a small shovel beneath a painted “hole” in the wall. The light blue paint line streaked across the top of the taller child’s head and various unintelligible messages had been scrawled across their bodies. I’d nearly missed it because the image looked so different from the original I’d seen online: the hole originally showed a sandy beach scene with lush palm trees and blue water. But Banksy’s imaginary aperture had since been filled in white. Of Banksy’s artworks, this is my favorite as its 2011 state evidences the transience and mutability of street art; the ongoing-ness of story, of life, and of place; the critique of the lasting-ness of the structure upon which the art exists. But it’s my favorite for more than what it says about street art as a form: in 2005, Banksy depicted the children smiling while innocently playing with their buckets and shovels—implicitly, the ones who dug the hole through the wall, exposing the oasis on the other side; this artwork captures the promise and latent power, the potential of children, and in its position on the West Bank side of the wall, it evinces the freedom from the confines of the barrier that the West Bank will eventually gain. Yet, by the time I witnessed it in 2011, Banksy’s oasis had been blotted out with painted graffiti bricks, Banksy’s hole patched, the wall reconstructed with another artist’s spray paint. The children remain smiling, though, unbound by the graffitied chaos encroaching on all sides, nearly blotting them out. During a 2019 conversation with Taqi Spateen—a Palestinian graffiti artist from Ramallah—I showed him the photos I’d taken of this Banksy back in 2011, of Banksy’s oasis covered over by painted white bricks. Spateen explained that one night in 2007 or 2008 a Zionist group from an Israeli settlement visited the West Bank wall in both Bethlehem and Ramallah to paint over any graffiti that depicted “a hole in the wall” or anything that made the wall “see-through.” Spateen continued: “It is 100 percent the Zionists [who] did it. They used the white color and the blue color because the flag of Israel is blue and white. And the material is too expensive; Palestinian people [are] unprepared to pay a hefty sum to destroy a painting on the wall.” In contrast, when he saw the photos, Hamza Abu Ayyash—a Palestinian artist—said, “Since it’s on the eastern side of the wall, then most probably a local [Palestinian] guy did it. Zionists are weaker than doing stuff in highly populated areas with Palestinians. It’s street art after all. Sometimes you should see it in a simpler way.” And he is right; anyone can paint on top of anyone else’s work on the wall. And it is possible that a Palestinian wanted to enact a flag-colored reminder of the state that’s enacting the oppression. But targeting “holes” painted onto the wall seems to me to be a deliberate and pointed gesture, especially considering the color choice. Either way, though, someone painted-in the “holes” in the wall, and this overwriting of Banksy’s work before 2011—which goes unreported by any western media outlet—evidences the extent to which the wall embodies the Palestinian/Israeli conflict: people care enough about maintaining the separation enacted by the wall that they went to the effort of erasing even a semblance of metaphoric freedom for anyone looking outward from the West Bank. And yet, looking at my photo again, I notice that just to the right of the children, another more recent artist painted a mural of a tree springing up, bursting a new hole in the wall, roots embedded deep within the image’s ground—an artist just as committed to breaking through the wall as whoever had erased the holes. In 2005, Banksy published photos—which he called “Holiday Snaps”—of his West Bank artwork, writing on his website:
The Israeli government is building a wall surrounding the occupied Palestinian territories. It… will eventually run for over 700km—the distance from London to Zurich. The wall is illegal under international law and essentially turns Palestine into the world’s largest open prison.
When installing his work, Banksy received mixed responses. Reportedly, as he was packing up his paint, Banksy thanked an elderly Palestinian man who’d told him that his graffiti looked beautiful, to which the man snapped, “We don’t want it to be beautiful, we hate this wall. Go home.” Street art forces the viewer to decide how to read the installation, to navigate the liminality of artistic expression and criminal act. Art on a border wall complicates this further: by tagging such a barrier—an embodied political structure—the artist imbues contrasting political significance, forcing the viewer to move beyond the structure’s base border functionality, to engage in conversation with the wall. Banksy’s interaction with the Palestinian gentleman evidences the crux of this dichotomy: is it better to leave the wall bare so onlookers see the plain concrete structure for its utilitarian purpose, or to elevate the barrier into a canvas, creating a massive symbol of protest? Further down the wall, a sturdy military turret set into the concrete structure was splashed with an assortment of pastel paints like a Jackson Pollock canvas, splatters streaking down to the ground over top of the blue line of paint, still stretching itself across the span of the wall. Through the turret’s window slits far above, an IDF soldier in a battle helmet watched us pick our way along a large drainage culvert filled with volleyball sized stones, rusted metal, and refuse. It smelled like sewage, likely because the .4 square mile Aida refugee camp—which houses more than 5,500 Palestinian refugees—still lacks proper water access and sewage and waste disposal some 60 or more years after it was established for Palestinians displaced from 43 villages in Israel and the West Bank. And so, refuse is discarded in cesspools along the community’s edges abutting the wall. Behind the culvert, the silhouette of a prone figure spanned twenty-eight wall sections—an immense installation that made me feel tiny. Upon closer inspection, mock wall blocks constructed the silhouette—a personified stone blockade. I couldn’t decide whether the mural evidenced the personal nature of the wall, or if the wall lying down or sleeping had some significance lost to me, but the blue paint line stretched across the figure’s entirety, effectively binding the mural to the wall. Standing at the silhouette’s head, we could see the end of the wall a fourth of a mile or so ahead, and decided to walk there to finish it out even though there didn’t look to be much graffiti on the remaining wall. A gigantic mural of the phrase “Open Sesame” spanned twenty-two of the final wall panels, which seemed a fitting end to the structure. Only when I reached the final concrete wall segment did I realize that at some point between the sleeping silhouette and “Open Sesame,” the light blue stripe of paint had also ended, though I’d missed seeing where or how. Though the West Bank barrier is commonly thought of as a concrete wall, in actuality, concrete makes up a mere five percent of the barrier, fortifying the most fraught areas of the border, specifically the border nearest Jerusalem. In the official description by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Israel (MFA), the other 95 percent consists of a barrier fence that’s “high-tech and [that has] other intruder prevention systems,” which go unspecified. At the end of the barrier wall, intense coils of razor-wire replaced the cement, looping haphazardly, half buried in dead weeds on either side of a dirt IDF-controlled border patrol road extending as far as we could see.By painting on the West Bank wall, Banksy both publicized Israel’s oppression of Palestine and legitimized the wall as canvas, creating space for the thousands of artists who have come after him. Banksy’s visit also turned the wall into a tourist destination, drawing visitors from around the world who then spread word of the wall’s effects. In 2007, Banksy returned to Palestine, opening an art exhibition titled “Santa’s Ghetto Bethlehem,” featuring collaborative work by artists interested in revitalizing West Bank tourism. Banksy added three graffiti installations, one of which was an IDF soldier checking the papers of a donkey (think the Virgin Mary riding a donkey to Bethlehem)—an artwork soon destroyed by Bethlehem locals who found the work too sardonic as the IDF actually requires animals to have papers to cross the border. However, in 2017, artist Taqi Spateen recreated the Banksy donkey on a notable section of the West Bank wall in Bethlehem, and since then, he’s maintained the image anytime it’s been defaced—both, I would venture, as an homage to the impact that Banksy’s graffiti has had on the local tourism industry and to the importance of the image’s critique of Israel’s ongoing border oppression. Around noon, tired and hungry from our two mile trek, which had taken us the better part of the morning, we arrived back to Hebron Road—the main street running through Bethlehem that heads out Checkpoint 300 toward Jerusalem—and found another stenciled Banksy mural: this one of a young, pig-tailed girl, maybe eight years old, in a pink dress, patting down the leg of an IDF soldier who stands, feet spread, hands above his head against the wall so the viewer only sees his back. The soldier’s M16 leans up against the wall. A white bow wraps the girl’s waist. The drab concrete façade under the graffiti looks dirty compared to the olive green military uniform and the light pink dress, which has since faded to a crème color under the sun. Sometime after 2011, the owner of the building constructed a gift shop around the wall, both to monetize access to the artwork, and because other street artists kept tagging the wall, causing concern that this Banksy might be damaged beyond recognition, as has happened to some of his other works. Cutting from Hebron Road to Manger Street, we happened upon another Banksy, painted on the side of the Saca Souvenir Store, which sells “Fine Jewelry—Genuine Antiquities—Olive Wood Carvings—Souvenirs.” Tagged onto the olive green-gray facade flies a white dove with wings spread, an olive branch in its mouth. In the classic Banksy twist of expectations, the dove wears a flak jacket. Over the bird’s breast, a red sniper sight crisscrosses a central laser dot. Next to the dove, a sign greets visitors: “Welcome to Palestine. Welcome to Bethlehem.” After grabbing falafel from a corner shop, my friend and I hailed a taxi for the two miles back to Checkpoint 300 because we’d seen the Banksy’s we’d come to see. Pulling out onto the street, the young Arab cab driver introduced himself: “My name is Hassan. You?”After introducing ourselves, we asked him about driving. “It is very bad here in Bethlehem,” he said. “No jobs. No agriculture because Israel sends water to Jewish settlements instead of here. Driving taxis is an okay job though because there are many tourists. There were many drivers waiting for you at Checkpoint 300, yes?”We nodded. There had been dozens waiting when we arrived that morning.“Many drivers wait there, but I don’t. Drivers rent their taxi every day from a company and get one tank of gas free, so every day I hope for many trips to make back the rent. It is hard, but it is a job and I am very thankful.”After inquiring where we lived in the U.S., Hassan asked why we were studying in Israel and why we were in the West Bank. “Ah,” he said. “Banksy. Very famous.” After a long pause, Hassan said, “Jerusalem… Is it a big city?” “Wait…” I stammered, “what?”—momentarily confused by the question because the outskirts of Jerusalem are easily visible on the hills beyond the West Bank wall. “It is a big city? I cannot go there, but my grandpa lived in Jerusalem before the separation and tells many stories. What do you like about the city? Is it beautiful?”My friend and I described how much we loved living just outside Jerusalem’s Old City, how walking the crowded alleys felt like being transported hundreds of years into the past, the beauty of the Dome of the Rock. Hassan pressed us for more—Jerusalem’s New City, the urban sprawl, the wide boulevards, the expansive markets. “I sometimes go to the top of a hill and look out at Jerusalem,” Hassan said. “It seems very beautiful. It is my dream to go there someday. Maybe I will get a job in Jerusalem when I am older. No more taxi driving.”I didn’t know what to say other than agreeing that hopefully one day he could. Here I was an American taking a day trip into the West Bank to see art, and he couldn’t visit his grandfather’s city on the other side of the wall. In March of 2017, Banksy returned once more to Bethlehem to open “The Walled Off Hotel,” a functioning nine-room hotel owned by a Palestinian named Wisam Salsaa. The second floor of the hotel contains an art gallery displaying work by renowned or up-and-coming Palestinian artists. The hotel rooms, decorated by Banksy and other artists, run from $60 to $965 a night, and provide views of the West Bank barrier. Salsaa calls it the “hotel with the worst view in the world.” On the walls of the “Banksy Room,” which runs at $265 a night (the cheapest room painted by Banksy himself), a soldier and Palestinian boy engage in a pillow fight and delicately painted feathers explode throughout the background. In another room hangs a framed graffiti image of a Palestinian woman holding a brick as depicted in CNN coverage, yet a layer of glass covers the work, a bullet hole shattering the still. The “Budget Barracks” (the $60 option) are furnished with surplus items from IDF military barracks—concrete walls and floors, thin metal bunk beds, mosquito netting, and barred windows. The hotel lobby itself is open to the public and contains a functional café themed like a colonial British outpost circa 1917, the year Britain announced official support for establishment of a Jewish state in Palestine. The café walls display homemade slingshots beneath rows of security cameras, as well as various Banksys: Palestinian children scaling heaven’s gate, an industrial bulldozer dozing peaceful homeowners, a portrait of Jesus (with a laser site trained on his forehead) looking upon drones overhead, and a tower turret turned into a carnival-esque merry-go-round for children. In a corner stands a Romanesque bust: nose and mouth covered with a handkerchief, a can of teargas frozen in perpetual spray wending its way around the statue. Every hotel key attaches to a scaled-down concrete panel of the West Bank wall—each six inches tall, heavy and unwieldy. In the FAQ page on the hotel website, in response to “Can I paint the wall?” Banksy writes, “Guests enjoy privileged out of hours access to Wall*Mart next door—the graffiti supplies store which stocks everything you need to make your mark and offers expert local advice and guidance.” After “Is It legal?” Banksy writes, “It’s not not legal. The wall itself remains illegal under international law.” Under “Is It Ethical?” Banksy: “Some people don’t agree with painting the wall and argue anything that trivialises or normalises its existence is a mistake. Then again, others welcome any attention brought to it and the ongoing situation. So in essence—you can paint it, but avoid anything normal or trivial.”In December of 2017, Banksy painted two cherubs near the Walled Off Hotel. Together, the angels work to pull the wall apart with a crowbar, and a slight gap in the wall makes it appear that their concerted effort is working. Hassan pulled the taxi up to Checkpoint 300 where we’d cross back into Israel. “You have seen both the Banksy’s here at the checkpoint? Cut-along-the-line and the chairs?” “We saw the line, but not the chairs,” I said. “Where’s that one?” “The chairs have been damaged, but part is still there,” Hassan said, motioning to a wall section nearly hidden to the left of the border complex, on which were stenciled two black and white wingback armchairs. Between these, a small decorative table supported a single flower pot, behind which stretched an expansive curtained window. We thanked Hassan, paid, and he drove off, leaving us staring at this final Banksy.I later learned that originally, within the window, Banksy had pasted a large poster photograph of a snowy mountain foregrounded by a wooded pond—a realistic contrast to his crisp, stenciled cartoon chairs. Yet that day, in the condition in which I saw it, phrases had been scribbled across the gigantic furniture and the alpine landscape photo was long gone, peeled away to expose an empty window frame, filled in with light blue paint.Today though, looking back at the photo I took of that Banksy in 2011, for the first time I notice that whoever painted the window light blue—the Zionists or Palestinians, whoever did it—also streaked their paint roller to or from the west, breaking Banksy’s window frame with a single streak of paint—the origin point, or perhaps the ending point—of the light blue line that I’d lost track of while walking the length of the wall. Across the entirety of the window pane, washed-in with the color of the sky, someone had scrawled brick and mortar lines in dark blue and green—one final window walled into the West Bank barrier. And yet, in the few years since someone painted it, weather has badly faded the paint, wearing away this attempt to block the metaphoric view—a reminder that with time, even the elements themselves tear down our best efforts to wall people in. Sources Consulted:Abo-Salamah, Yazan. Personal Interview. 8/29/19. Al-Ali, Naji. A Child in Palestine: The Cartoons of Naji Al-Ali. Verso Books. 2009. “Al-Aqsa Intifada Timeline.”BBC News. 2004. “Aida Camp Profile.”The Applied Research Institute—Jerusalem, The Spanish Agency for International Development Cooperation (AECID), and the Azahar Program. 2010. 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Goldenberg, Suzanne. “Rioting as Sharon Visits Islam Holy Site.”The Guardian. 2000.Gritten, David. “UN Experts Accuse Israel of Sexual Violence and ‘Genocidal Acts’ in Gaza.”BBC. 03/13/2025.Hareuveni, Eyal. Dispossession and Exploitation: Israel’s Policy in the Jordan Valley and Northern Dead Sea.www.btselem.org. 2011. Hass, Amira and Barak Ravid. “Dutch Water Giant Severs Ties With Israeli Water Company Due to Settlements.”Haaretz. 2013. “Israel.” The World Factbook. The Central Intelligence Agency. www.cia.gov. “Israel is strangling the West Bank’s economy.”The Economist. 2023.“‘It Is Important to Call a Genocide a Genocide,’ Consider Suspending Israel’s Credential as UN Member State, Experts Tell Palestinian Rights Committee.”United Nations. 419th Meeting. 10/31/2024. Jones, Sam. “Spray Can Prankster Tackles Israel’s Security Barrier.”The Guardian. 2005. Khalil Safi, Shatha. Personal Interview. 8/29/19. Lazaroff, Tovah. “Why Netanyahu Can’t Finish West Bank Security Barrier.”The Jerusalem Post. 2016. Liddell, Graham. “Gracing the Walls: Saleh from Bethlehem.”Marshallah News. 2014. Liddell, Graham. “In Photos: Bethlehem Remembers Teen Slain by Israeli Forces.” Ma’an New Agency. 2014. Liddell, Graham. “Remembering Saleh: A Life Cut Short.” Ma’an New Agency. 2014. McArdle, Elaine. “Banksy in Bethlehem! Banksy Street Art, Bethlehem, Palestine.” www.thewholeworldisaplayground.com. 2014. “Movement and access update in the West Bank | May 2025.” United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs. 05/27/2025. “Official: Israel Lowers Water Supply to Nablus Villages.” Ma’an News Agency. August 8, 2010. “Palestinians Say Over 1,500 Children Killed by Israel Since 2000.”Haaretz. 2014. Parry, William. Against the Wall: The Art of Resistance in Palestine. Chicago Review Press. 2011. Quigley, John. “The Lancet and Genocide By ‘Slow Death’ in Gaza.” Arab Center Washington D.C. 07/12/2024. “Red Cross Criticizes Israeli Security Barrier.”BBC. 2004. Reed, Katya. “Bethlehem Checkpoint: Waiting in Line vs. Waiting in Line Under Occupation.” Mondoweiss.net. 2010. Renmar, Taylor. “Banksy Graffiti in Palestine.”The World of Banksy Art. 2012. “Restrictions on Movement.”B’Tselem: The Israeli Information Center for Human Rights in the Occupied Territories. 2017. Rothchild, Alice. “‘Beautiful Resistance’ in Bethlehem’s Aida Refugee Camp.” Mondoweiss.net. 2010. “Rights expert finds ‘reasonable grounds’ genocide is being committed in Gaza.”United Nations: UN News. 03/26/2024. “Saving Lives: Israel’s Security Fence.” Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs PowerPoint. Securityfence.mfa.gov.il. 2000. Sharon, Jeremy. “Despite ostensible ban, tens of thousands of Palestinians working in Israel – report.”The Times of Israel. 2024. Spateen, Taqi. 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With the short fiction collection My Child is a Stranger (AOS, 2025) Brandon Teigland offers a close reading of possible futures. Teigland’s exploratory voracity lays the groundwork for an examination of impulse, whether towards the limits of art or the human. The realm of theory has to live in our very real, fleshy heads, at least for now, but what happens when assumptions break down? I spoke to Brandon about this questing and interrogative collection.Rebecca Gransden: How long has the compilation of My Child is a Stranger taken you? What was the process of choosing the stories for inclusion like?Brandon Teigland: Over the past decade, while writing and publishing three other books, I was also assembling this collection—eighteen stories written between 2015 and 2025. In that time, the culture of contemporary fiction has changed. All the stories I've included in My Child is a Stranger are in some way about the time of their writing, whether they explicitly address the issues of the day or not. Everyone knows what these are: globalization, economic collapse, inequality, technological upheaval, environmental degradation, mass displacement, terror, war, and, with these, shifting ideas of what it means to be human.Is there a common thread among these? Probably not. As Jean-François Lyotard would say, there is no overarching metanarrative to explain and justify everything. There are only outcomes—ideas lived out in all their messy complexity. The 'child' in the title comes from Emmanuel Levinas’s Totality and Infinity, where he cites Isaiah 49: My child is a stranger, but a stranger who is not only mine, for he is me. He is me, a stranger to myself… However we relate to children in our own lives, the figure of the child—whether as an evasion or an embodiment of hope and despair—tells us something of the fears we as a species have for the future and what hope we invest in it.RG: What does the posthuman mean to you, and how does it manifest in your writing?BT: Posthumanism is a strange institution—one that allows us to be everything, anything. David Roden’s Disconnection Thesis suggests that posthumans would be radically different from humans because they would be 'disconnected' from existing human forms of life, practices, and conceptual frameworks. This disconnection isn’t just physical but involves a deeper ontological rupture—meaning posthuman beings may not be understandable in human terms, as they would operate outside the assemblage of human social systems.I see two kinds of posthumanism: ‘open’ posthumanism, which is unrestricted and capable of embodying anything, and ‘closed’ posthumanism, which imposes its own self-chosen limitations, restricting what posthumanism can be. I find both compelling and a little suspect, which is why I consider my writing a type of speculative posthumanism.Roden’s speculative posthumanism contrasts with critical posthumanism, which focuses on deconstructing the human concept within cultural and philosophical contexts. Instead, he considers the possible emergence of new kinds of beings beyond our ability to conceptualize—an unpredictable evolution where technology, biology, and autonomy break free from human structures. This aligns with my interest in posthumanism as a post-existential, almost unknowable state, where identity, transformation, and alienation lead to forms of existence outside human comprehension.To ask, ‘What is posthumanist literature?’ is to examine how writers might explore these feral forms of fabulist fiction. Literature is bound up with what it’s like to be us, to be human. How we make ourselves intelligible to ourselves. Posthuman literature matters not because it helps us understand who we are today, but because it asks who we might become, or not become, tomorrow.RG: “The Last Shape” explores themes of aging and decay, of the ravages of time. You highlight how the pursuit of ‘beating’ time, the thirst for life extension, can lead to a state that pollutes the living environment. How do you view the concept of deep time? What is the contemporary relationship to the idea of primitive memory and evolution?BT: In “The Last Shape”, Professor Ali Abbasi, a biogerontologist, ventures into California’s Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest in search of Methuselah, haunted by dreams of being trapped among its twisted pines. He realizes these trees endure not through vitality but by existing in a half-dead state, mirroring his fear that extreme life extension leads to stagnation and detachment.As he ascends, he encounters a breath-like entity dormant within the roots, suggesting that longevity is not just biological but an unnatural disruption of time. When he descends, his own breathing has changed—his body altered, his humanity uncertain. The story critiques the philosophy of senescence as a postmortal impasse, where longer lifespans sever us from evolution, erasing primitive memory and disrupting the natural balance. Deep time, embodied in these trees, reveals that life and death are inseparable, and immortality is not a triumph but a corruption of identity. The pursuit of preservation doesn’t just pollute the environment—it pollutes the self, rendering us unrecognizable. True continuity lies not in defying death but in accepting the decay and renewal that sustain all life—offering no solace beyond nature’s endless cycle.RG: We each have to face our own apocalypse. The collection confronts apocalypticism on both a personal and societal scale. How do you view the modern era’s version of apocalypse? Is there an apocalyptic zeitgeist in the literary scene?BT: The apocalyptic realism of contemporary literature is an as-yet-unstated movement, forming new waves around writers who are realizing that there is no limit to what literature can do: it can do anything it wants. It can be raw, risky, and random—deliberately unfiltered, uncensored, and unprofessional. Most significantly, it can embrace a wilder edge, a kind of optimistic nihilism—something like a Crowleyian call to 'Do what thou wilt.'RG:I chose the wrong means of escape. I took an awkward shortcut that led me right back to where I was, left to compound the horror of living there, in that place of no escape, with the exhaustion of the journey. Empty-handed and up to my ears in student debt. If I wasn’t a destroyed human being then, I am now. Stagnant and useless. Full of false sensation. False scorn and feeble hatred. Not knowing which it really is, scorn or hatred, I laugh.“The Naysayer” pays particular attention to the concept of ‘giving up.’ What does ‘giving up’ mean in this story? To what degree did you consider structure in your approach to “The Naysayer”?BT: “The Naysayer” is a novelette written with the experimentalism and exploration of postmodernism and pessimistic fiction, chronicling a protagonist who internalizes failure as a metaphysical and existential certainty. The narrator, a disillusioned student burdened by debt and an eroding sense of self, isolates himself in a rented room where he discovers a lost manuscript, A Theory of Giving Up, written by the enigmatic Detlef Stefan. This "taxonomy of failure" becomes the narrator’s gospel, shaping his understanding of human effort as futile and resigning him to a state of inertia.Giving up, in this story, is not simply surrender; it is a conscious philosophical act, an assertion of negative will, a final form of resistance against a world that demands constant forward motion. Structurally, “The Naysayer” parallels this philosophy by rejecting conventional narrative resolution, unfolding in recursive loops of failed attempts, lost texts, and abandoned thoughts. Each passage feels like a false start, a directionless intellectual meandering that reflects the narrator’s inability to progress in life. The disquiet of “The Naysayer” is not in catastrophe, but in its quiet insistence that all roads lead nowhere.RG: How do you feel about the idea of anonymity?BT: I prefer to be a known unknown—recognizable yet obscured, present but absent. Absolute anonymity doesn’t interest me, but neither does full visibility. Slavoj Žižek describes the “Bartlebian act” as a quiet refusal, an opting out rather than direct resistance, like Melville’s scrivener who “would prefer not to.” Writers like László Krasznahorkai cultivate a similar aura of mystery, remaining at the periphery of mainstream literary consciousness while exerting undeniable influence. Fernando Pessoa’s heteronyms take this even further, fragmenting the self into multiple voices, each existing independently while the author remains elusive. In an era of constant self-performance, there’s value in resisting that pull, letting the work speak for itself, and leaving just enough space for the writing to haunt the reader.RG:I’m afraid to begin this story, a story with no definite end. There’s no single structure I can name here, no crystallized normality around which I can base the experience of my life, nothing that I can’t doubt any more than I can doubt the very room where I’m writing this now, a room in a city in a postanthropic culture on a planet in space. On an old bed, I lie down passively, supine, in a kind of resignation, and wait for the end.Are there stories that you are still afraid to begin?BT: “Cathedral of Spiders” collapses the boundary between fiction and nonfiction by making myself a character, testing how far self-mythologization can go before dissolving into alienation. The work teeters between self-aggrandizement—casting myself as the last human, the final perceiver—and the ironic deflation of that role through solipsism and cosmic insignificance. Writing becomes both an act of creation and self-destruction, a manuscript that longs to be burned yet refuses to end. I feared this erasure—not just of identity, but of the distinction between fiction and reality, between writing and self-annihilation, between the author and authored. The text spirals endlessly, a voice narrating its own extinction, unable to stop.RG: What does the future mean to you? Where would you like to take your writing?BT: The future is a place where writing literature is impossible—extro-literature. Extro-science fiction, as described by Quentin Meillassoux, explores worlds where science cannot be used to explain existence. It rejects science’s ability to establish objects or theories, confronting the idea that the laws of nature are not logically necessary. In a similar way, extro-literature suggests that writing itself becomes impossible in a future where meaning dissolves, where narratives are no longer anchored to human logic or perception.All my writing questions the limits of human-centered storytelling. I’m trying to understand how a posthuman novel both embodies and reshapes its own form—how a posthuman novel functions. If writing itself becomes impossible, what remains? Perhaps only fragments—stories that can no longer be told, slipping away. If posthumanism severs us from our origins, then posthuman literature must do the same—breaking away, leaving no meaning behind.
You reach your forties and your life’s nothing but bus rides to work, and long hours in the lab, and a sandwich for lunch because with a mortgage and a spouse and two nearly-grown sons your pay doesn’t go far, and every day it’s rinse-and-repeat, your life fading away in this windowless room with its unsparing fluorescent lights, its stink of solvents and reagents, and then one day you mix compound A with solution B and what you’ve made is a substance so viscous and black you can scarcely believe it, you tip it out and it’s like you’ve poured emptiness into a puddle on your workbench, a hole where there can be no hole, an utter absence of light that you lower your head to peer at, and touch its tacky surface with a fingertip, then press your fingers into, and that’s when its chill soars through you, rapid and numbing and dragging darkness with it, and before you know it that darkness is everywhere, that darkness is everything, and you should panic but you don’t, your heart should race but there is no heart, there is no you because you are this void and it is you, and it is stillness, and it is peace, it is where time has never existed, so it’s a shock when it breaks apart and you’re yanked back by a burning in your chest and your eyes open to a glare of ugly lights and your colleagues kneeling over you, weeping with relief that they’ve revived you, and you’re weeping too because you are you again, back in this sordid little world.
Everyone was lined up to watch. We’d waited months. Cassie sat beside me on the curb as her dad revved the engine of his bike. Ready. All eight cars from the night’s derby were bumper-to-tail in front of him like a canyon. He had cleared seven in Wichita once, but never eight. Cassie’s step-mother Luann had refused to show. Cassie and I both wore shirts with a graphic of him soaring through the air. He signed them earlier that day, laughed and apologized that he was out of the smaller sizes. “Christ sake, those look like dresses on you two...” Walking away we’d sniffed the signatures as they dried. We sat beneath a streetlight waiting for the jump. Our white shirts glowed. Her knees were tucked into hers like huge tits, she looked down at them and smiled at me. “Hope mine never get this big.” She made jokes when she was nervous. Her dad turned the throttle again, ZRRAANG....ZRRAANG. Carnival lights turned woozy in storefront windows as they shook. He took a last look at the ramp and then retreated to the end of the block for his approach. He was the coolest guy I had ever seen. My dad was on stage with the rest of the band and they all started banging away on their instruments. He was on drums. It was their first original tune all night, a rabid, crescendoed free-for-all. The engine screamed through its gears down the street toward us. The band stopped on my dad’s cue as the front tire reached the foot of the ramp. Our hearts beat into our ears. Eight cars. Cassie knew before anyone else. She realized Luann was right. That eight was too many. She pulled her knees from her shirt and sprinted toward where he would crash land, feet from where his helmet split against the street.
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After that he was different of course. The bones eventually healed but his head never did. No more state fairs, no more jumps. And Cassie was different too. She threw away all those shirts because no one wanted them anymore, especially her. They sold his motorcycles to pay the hospital bills. He would shuffle through neighborhoods, never lifting his feet. Sometimes barely dressed. People whispered in their yards about him until it wasn’t interesting anymore. Finally he took a shotgun into the basement and finished what the crash had begun. The police took most of the mess away, but the blood was still there. Shards of bone were left behind too, some stuck in the ceiling tiles even. I heard my dad screaming into the phone the next day, furious. “Because I would’ve done it myself, Frank, for fuck’s sake!!!” He came out of the kitchen, eyes wet, shaking his head. “That poor girl...’’ They’d let Cassie clean it all up herself because she and Luann couldn’t afford someone else.
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I followed Cassie down to the creek behind the funeral home. She lifted her dress over the tall grass along the bank. The first time I’d seen her in a dress, or a necklace. She took off her shoes and put them on a large rock, then stepped in. She bent down and caught a few tadpoles in her cupped hands. That time of year there were thousands of them. We’d collected them together as little kids. “Lonesome in numbers...” I didn’t know if she was talking to me or the things squiggling around in her hands. She looked up. “It’s something my dad used to say. That there are so many people it can make you lonely sometimes. Like these things...just too many of them to mean anything. C’mere...” She let the tadpoles go and took off her necklace. It was a delicate gold chain with a dull, white pendant shaped like an arrowhead. “Gimme your hand.” She pressed the sharp edge of it against her palm and drew blood. I asked her what it was. “A shark’s tooth. My dad gave it to me.” It didn’t look like any shark’s tooth I’d seen. I gave her my hand. She squeezed hers hard against it and I felt our blood mix. We watched it drip from our hands and disappear into the water. She asked me if it hurt and I shook my head no. I looked at her and saw she was crying. That’s when I knew it wasn’t a shark tooth between our palms; it was bone.
Over the last year or so, Amy DeBellis has been one of my favorite newer short story writers. Now she has a new novel, ‘All Our Tomorrows,’ published by CLASH Books, which is one of my favorite books of the year.Her writing is so skillful: the language, the plots, the pacing, the characters. But I also love her writing because I find many of her stories to be dark and bleak. To me, her stories feel steeped in depression, menace, and a kind of claustrophobic doom. I want to present the reader some examples of stories we’ve published by DeBellis:‘Purgatory’ –- a short story about a teen who becomes infatuated with a boy at her highschool who is killing animals. Soon he teaches her how to hunt and they start shooting animals together in the woods: deer, foxes, frogs. At one point the boy says: “Only ever point the rifle at things you are willing to destroy.” Then the story says: “She thinks of aiming it at every tree on her property, at her house, at her mother’s car. Into the open cavern of her own skull.” The story ends with them shooting the neighbor’s cat.‘His Body’ — a short story about a woman whose husband has caught an STD that causes incurable lesions to break out all over his body. The holes in the flesh never go away, until eventually his entire body is covered in them.We also published three micros by her:‘Yakutsk’ — about a woman who is getting ready to wander alone into the frozen taiga‘Wake’ — about a woman at her mother’s funeral. First sentence: “Morning: the sun smears blood across the sky.” And a micro titled: ‘Even My Fantasies Are Chronically Ill.’I spoke with DeBellis about her writing.
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Chris Dankland: Hi Amy! Thanks so much for taking the time to talk to me. Do you feel like your writing as a whole tends toward the melancholic, or does it only show up in certain pieces? Is that feeling something you consciously cultivate and lean into, or does it emerge naturally? Amy DeBellis: I do think it leans towards the melancholic as a whole. (In fact, it’s like the Tower of Pisa with how much it leans…) I’m trying to think of a piece I’ve written in the last couple of years that doesn’t have that darkness, and I’m coming up short. Even humorous pieces (“Upgrade” in HAD, for example, or “Persistence” in Roi Fainéant) have elements of darkness in them—it’s just that that darkness isn’t played straight the way it is in the majority of my writing. Yeah, it’s in everything. It emerges naturally. I love beautiful things—for me, in many ways, the written word is the ultimate form of beauty—but I also believe you can’t have beauty without something to contrast it. That discordant note. That, to quote Donna Tartt, “little speck of rot”. Except for me it’s a little bit more than a speck. CD: To me, your stories often feel physically heavy. Sometimes I get a weird image when I read your work of a stone sinking in water. You are very good at embodying emotion and describing it in a tactile way. Your stories feel like they live in the body: grief shows up as fatigue, sorrow has weight, dread feels like muscle tension. Is this a conscious part of your craft, this physical translation of emotional states? AD: I love the image of the stone! And that’s a huge compliment, that my writing could give you this mental image. I’ve always believed that the body is the seat of memory. There’s this wonderful Stephen King quote: “Art consists of the persistence of memory.” So the body and art are inextricably linked, being as they are both holders and representations of memory. And since the present runs continuously into the past, almost everything not held by the future is already a memory. I personally feel emotions very strongly, so no, it’s not really conscious that this comes across in my work. I mean, of course I try to choose the best descriptors for a feeling of dread, but the translation of emotional states to the physical—I believe it’s the most powerful way to get across emotion to a reader who might not have experienced the same thing that’s happening in the story. Let’s say there is a story about a grieving widow. Not everyone knows what it’s like to have lost a husband, or even to have lost a close family member, but everyone knows the feeling of grief. Describing it as a physical sensation is a way to bring the reader into their body (not their mind, where they’re thinking Oh but I was never a grieving widow) and force them to feel the emotions of the piece. CD: I feel like the three main characters in ‘All Our Tomorrows’ are all stuck in a depressive rut at the beginning of the book. The characters are isolated in the sense that they are always wearing some sort of mask around most people. They don’t feel a real human connection with others, and this only starts to change near the end of the book when the characters meet.For most of the book, each character seems trapped in their own depressive logic, their own sealed inner monologue. Was it challenging to bring them out of that headspace and allow for genuine human contact?AD: It was a bit difficult, but it was also really fun. I massively enjoyed describing each character from the viewpoint of the others—it allowed me to view them from the outside looking in, for once. I am not one of those writers (no shade to them though) who says that their characters are speaking to them in their head. But for the scene where they all meet—particularly the second one where they’re all together—I kind of just let the words flow. My characters took the reins more than ever before. I truly had no idea what Janet was going to say when [redacted]*, for example. Or when Gemma figured out that [redacted]*. It was truly magical seeing their personalities come alive on the page. *I am keeping everyone safe from spoilers.CD: I feel that climate change is mostly unstoppable. I have little to no hope that humans will solve this problem, and I believe that things are only going to continue to get worse from here on. Humans are survivors, but I think that the Earth in which humans will have to live, 200 or 300 years from now, will be so degraded that it won’t be all that different from hell. I don’t feel hope for the future, in the long run. The existential threat of climate change is a worry hanging over the heads of all three main characters in ‘All Our Tomorrows.’ How do you personally feel about climate change?AD: Sadly, I agree with you. I think we’ve all seen over the past few years that even if humans could solve this problem, we wouldn’t want to. And by “we” I mean the people who run the world, the CEOs of megacorporations, the billionaires who wreak the most environmental damage. It’s my opinion that they are almost uniformly psychopathic in their behavior and their lack of empathy. No normal person would want to do the things they’ve had to do in order to gain their position—and I believe that if a normal person did find themselves with that much power, they wouldn’t remain normal for very long. On the one hand, I truly enjoy my laptop, and my phone that allows me to contact my friends overseas. And parasite-free, running water. And medicine! But I also believe that our modern way of life is an aberration, a blip, almost a wrinkle in the way things are designed to be on earth. We are not entitled to live this way, it is not sustainable, and we are paying the price. People forget that for the overwhelming majority of human history, we lived in hunter-gatherer tribes. The Neolithic Revolution (when humans first began to farm) happened only ten thousand tears ago, which is around 3% of the time Homo sapiens have existed. And the Industrial Revolution, which gave us our industrial capitalism and modern infrastructure and nearly everything we feel entitled to as a part of “regular life,” happened so recently that only about 0.08% of human history has occurred after that. It’s mindblowing that we’ve caused so much damage to our planet in such a tiny fraction of time.And that 0.08% is what we think of as normal. Our own lives are so short in comparison that, looking back along the eight or so generations that have lived since the Industrial Revolution, it really does seem like it’s been forever. There’s a part in All Our Tomorrows where one of the main characters is thinking about the spiral drawing that’s mean to represent all the eras on earth — something like this, but colorful. Most of it is blue and green. Only the very newest end of the spiral is a different color. To quote my book, that’s “the Anthropocene, a slice so tiny you could easily miss it, a fingernail sliver of rust-covered gray. If you zoomed in enough you could see minuscule buildings, cars, an airplane, all hovering precariously just at the edge. To Anna it looked as though anyone standing on that edge was about to fall off into nothing, into the timeless black that surrounded the spiral.”I fear I’ve gone into a bit of a raving tangent, but I’ll wipe the froth off my mouth, do some deep breathing, and attempt to answer your question more succinctly: I don’t feel hope for the future in the long run, either. Climate change is multi-pronged, as it gives rise not only to fires and floods but also ancient pathogens thawing out of permafrost, mosquito and tick-borne diseases moving further and further across the globe, and so many other things we simply aren’t prepared for. CD: In a past interview, you mentioned that you were “gearing for a not-so happy ending” with ‘All Our Tomorrows’ but ultimately felt like the novel needed a more hopeful ending because you didn’t want the book to “leave readers feeling like the novel was a bunch of pointless doom—we get enough of that from social media and the news.”Are you concerned that readers will misread the darkness in your work as nihilism? How do you feel about nihilism? What do you hope that readers are left with after reading ‘All Our Tomorrows?’AD: I’m not really concerned that they’ll misread the darkness in my work as nihilism. If they do, I don’t mind. I would probably mind if I branded myself as some kind of “Hope Coach,” but thankfully that is not a direction I have gone in. One of the phrases you used earlier to describe the feelings my work gave you—“claustrophobic doom”—made me smile. I love claustrophobic doom! (Writing about it, not feeling it.) But I don’t think that all of life is claustrophobic doom. Existence is multifaceted, and I choose to bring attention to the darker parts of it. They’re a lot more fun to write about, for one thing. But I also see a lot of toxic positivity everywhere. You get demonetized on social media if your content is too depressing, which admittedly makes sense from a branding point of view. But at the same time, I don’t agree with phrases like: Everything will be okay in the end, and if it’s not okay, then it’s not the end. It has its uses during a panic attack, I suppose, but on the whole that phrase never made sense to me. Like, what if someone is dying of a horrible disease? What—are you saying that things will be okay in the end because of the sweet relief of death? Well, okay, I guess that’s one way to think about it, but I don’t think that’s what that particular phrase is going for…The most popular type of nihilism seems to be that life is meaningless and has no value, nothing you do matters, and there is no point to anything (and, I can’t help reading this into it—that you may as well just shuffle yourself off this mortal coil sooner rather than later). Honestly, I think those nihilists are overthinking it. I don’t like to burden my small monkey brain with the overall meaning of life. Like, yeah, duh. Nobody knows the meaning of life. Maybe there is none. Where I don’t agree with nihilism is that life has no value. I happen to like being alive, for the most part. There is so much beauty to be found in life. There’s beauty in pursuing creative activities, in spending time with loved ones, in listening to your favorite music, in eating good food. I don’t care if it’s meaningless—I still enjoy it. And hey, maybe it’s all meaningless in the end, since we don’t live forever, and you and everyone you know will eventually die…but honestly, I think immortality would be so much worse. It’s the ephemerality of life that makes it so precious. (And, going back to the psychopathic billionaires, this is something that the most powerful people on the planet seem to have forgotten. I truly believe they can’t enjoy small pleasures anymore. They want to rule the world and live forever because they can no longer appreciate things that would make the dopamine and serotonin receptors in a normal, healthy brain light up.) Towards the end of All Our Tomorrows, it was a bit of a challenge to keep the story realistic but also have it not be totally depressing. The ending of Janet’s last chapter, as well as the ending of Gemma’s last chapter (which is literally the last sentence of the book) is probably my most clear and straightforward answer to the question that snakes through the manuscript, which is essentially “What are we supposed to do about all this anxiety, all this uncertainty, all this pain?”So, to answer your question, I want readers to come away from All Our Tomorrows with a sense of hope, with the knowledge that they can do something—even if it’s just something for themselves, and not something that saves the world, because that’s impossible—but something. Whether that’s spending time with family, or doing something creative you enjoy, or being with the person you love. Something that has meaning, and purpose, and value. And that is what makes my book incompatible with nihilism.Order 'All Our Tomorrows' here.
