“I’m fascinated by the in-between, the doorway. I often wonder if I’m actually living, or just being dreamed by some greater consciousness. I mean, how would I know, really?”
If the material is personal, I change the names of the living: they can elect to claim their part or not. This is different from anything I did in the first book: the first book involved itself more with damage and this new book is more about reconciliation.
I think of the work as a memoir of self-reckoning and the kinds of comeuppances we sometimes have to endure in order to recast our expectations about intimacy and love.
by Sonya Chung
“Anyhow, I don’t write about prison and zeks. What I wanted to write about was life and people.”
I have a bad memory, except for the moment or times that I remember well. It wasn’t really a choice; it’s the only way I can write. If I tried to use a longer narrative I would bore myself sick with myself. I am also not enamored of chronology. This happened and then this, and then this, is just plain boring. But one vivid memory and another really punctuate a life, or mine, anyway. The interstitial stuff, like what were my jobs, are uninteresting. Unless, of course, they are.
When you talk of Southern literature, what do you mean? There are 10,000 Souths. Cracker South. Cajun South. Cowboy South. Souths in wiregrass, bluegrass, prairie grass, sawgrass. We’re as diverse as Europe here. Writers do their best, I think, to write about their own little postage stamps of experience.
by Wendy Siegelman
While Ferry raises some heady intellectual ideas, from the book’s first sentence he makes clear that what unifies fiction and memoir (and perhaps makes distinguishing between the two insignificant) is the power of good storytelling.