Brian Malloy

All your books have a Minnesota setting. Are you from Minnesota?

Minnesota has been home since 1978, but I grew up all over the country: Pennsylvania, Illinois, Michigan and Missouri. I have also lived in Washington D.C., Boston, and Amsterdam. I think of Philadelphia and Minneapolis as my hometowns, though strictly speaking, Minneapolis is where I have lived the longest, and feels most like home.

Are your books autobiographical?

No. The books are products of my imagination, although some events are inspired by real life. Like Tommy in THE YEAR OF ICE, my first car was a Challenger convertible. It looked great, but would stall out in a strong breeze. Like Kevin in THE YEAR OF ICE, I attended General College at the University of Minnesota. And like Sean in BRENDAN WOLF, I’m a big old honking Tree Hugger and an activist on environmental issues. And like Sean, I love the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness.

THE YEAR OF ICE and BRENDAN WOLF are very different works. Were readers surprised by the difference?

Yes. While THE YEAR OF ICE has its funny moments, BRENDAN WOLF is a much more somber work. Brendan as a character isn’t as sympathetic as Kevin Doyle (but then, even Kevin has his moments where you really want to smack him for the decisions he makes), and Brendan has had a much more difficult life than Kevin. With BRENDAN WOLF I wanted to test my ability to write a brooding, noir-ish work that was also suspenseful, and try to write sympathetically about a character many readers will find unsympathetic.

The new book, TWELVE LONG MONTHS, is also a departure, is it not?

TWELVE LONG MONTHS will be published in 2008, and in some ways, was a challenge of the first order. I’m writing from a contemporary female perspective, that of Molly Swain, an eighteen-year old heterosexual from a small Minnesota town who ends up in New York City. As a middle-aged gay man, Molly didn’t come easily to me, but as I got to know her better, I liked her humor, her self-pity, and her big heart. TWELVE LONG MONTHS is meant to be a test of friendship and with coming to terms with something you want so badly, but just can’t have. In Molly’s case, it is her friend Mark, who is gay.

What else is in the works?

I’ve had several false starts with a novel inspired by my family’s bar in Philadelphia, and am still struggling with it. I’m also interested in creating a story about a young atheist who isn’t your stereotypical non-believer. He’s not angry at religion, or at the people who practice it, he just doesn’t believe it. Since atheists are so unpopular in this country, there will be consequences to his non-belief, as well as many benefits. Right now, I’m still getting to know this character better.

Has your cancer diagnosis changed your writing?

Not so much my writing as my reading. I’ve read a lot of novels, memoirs, and poetry about serious illness to learn more about the experience of others with similar life-threatening conditions. Often these works can be broken down to three metaphors: illness as character flaw, illness as warfare, and illness as wisdom.

Susan Sontag argues that “the most truthful way to write regarding illness – and the healthiest way of being ill – is one most purified of, most resistant to, metaphoric thinking.” Anatole Broyard, however, sees some benefits. Broyard writes that while Sontag “is concerned only with negative metaphors, there are positive metaphors of illness, too, a kind of literary aspirin. In fact, metaphors may be as necessary to illness as they are to literature, as comforting to the patient as his bathrobe and slippers. At the very least, they are a relief from medical terminology.”

I’m with Broyard. Without metaphor, my cancer would have more, not less, power, due to my unfamiliarity with it. True, many metaphors are harmful (illness as personal failing), but if these are discarded, there is no better method to make the unfamiliar familiar.

Near the end of The Cancer Journals, Audre Lorde speculates that “maybe [cancer] is the chance to live and speak those things I really do believe, that power comes from moving into whatever I fear most that cannot be avoided.” I must admit, however, that I am less like Lorde and more like Tolstoy, who allegedly said just before he died, “I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.” The power Lorde wrote of is something I don’t yet possess, but I look for it in the writings of others who have struggled with serious illness. I find the most empowering works incorporate humility and gratitude.

What advice do you have for writers just starting out?

If you are writing for fame and fortune, you’ve picked the wrong field. If you are writing because you love to write, then by all means, keep writing. Be careful not to let the business side of publishing suck the joy out of the art of writing. I wrote two books that were never published before my “debut” novel hit the stands. Develop a thick skin when it comes to rejection, but at the same time, be open to honest and constructive criticism of your work. It’s a balancing act, and that’s part of the art of writing. Finally, revision is key. Many beginning writers balk at revising their work, which frankly, I don’t understand. I wish I could revise other parts of my life and get them right, erase the mistakes I’ve made and start over with a clean slate. Writing is the one area where we are always given a second, third, and fourth chance through revision. Take these chances.

What would you like to say to your readers?

Thanks for taking a chance on my books. Hopefully you will like some, and while others may disappoint, know I’m on a journey as a writer, one that I hope you will continue to share with me.