The thing I loved most about this story was its emphasis on gaining other perspectives and finding an outlet for the unsavory emotions that we all, as humans, feel on occasion (though hopefully not as severely as this protagonist). For Shelley’s boyfriend it was art. For our MC it was living within the ancient, static confines of his “totem” stone. How valuable is writing to you for processing difficult emotions, situations, and circumstances?
That’s a great question. I try to separate out the writing that “processes difficult emotions” with writing that I want others to see; for the latter, I want to be invisible to the reader. This isn’t therapy! I want to get out of myself. I journal a lot—personal writing intended just for me, without any thought of artistry or composition. I encourage everyone to do it, if only to see, quite baldly, how complex and simple we are at the same time. We’re just wanting creatures! “I didn’t get X thing and I am sad.” “I’m so happy this happened.” “I didn’t sleep well and am worried about this event tomorrow.” “I really adored this painting I saw the other day . . .” and so on.
It helps get out the mental dross, which can be quite boring and mundane. I do find this kind of writing meditative in the sense that I can observe my feelings “outside” of myself, because we’re all confined within our minds, for better or worse. For fiction, I want to connect with readers. It’s not enough to just process my feelings (and of course, some feelings are completely anathema to me, like wanting to hurt people!) I think so much of contemporary discourse about writing and reading involves statements of needing to “be seen” in fiction, to find recognition—but there’s also, for me, a deep pleasure in experiencing narratives of difference, to sit in lives, for a while, that are not my own.
I know that I, personally, have a couple different forms of inspiration and motivation for my own writing. Most times, it’s best for me to approach the work early in the day, before my mind wanders too far afield and I when I feel at peace in my house. Or in the silence of the very late hours, when the rest of the world is asleep. But occasionally, a story will just fly out of me when I am working through something difficult: It gives those tough emotions a place to go, and occasionally that can be highly motivating, ra-ther than distracting. Does that happen for you? Do you feel you’re more productive when you’ve lots to process or when you’re at peace? Does it vary by project if so, what does that var-iance feel and look like for your process?
Another great question, and a riff on the “tortured artist” idea. I’m with you: I prefer to write earlier in the day, and certainly not after, say, 8 p.m. It’s like having coffee: The characters and themes posses me, and the mental work keeps happening even if I’m not at the computer.
It’s exhausting!
Funnily enough, “Not Even a Fly” was one of those stories that “flew out of me” (no pun intended). I knew the character, and the setting, and the narrative arc, and—usually the trickiest aspect of a story for me—the POV, instantly. I tend to jot down notes on my phone as I go through a day, and the note that inspired this one was: “Even the mosquitos are sleeping.” I had (and have) no idea what it means, or where it came from. The image did strike me, though, as something quite evocative, if not profound. There was a sense of stillness and of intimacy and of being unnoticed—something that the main character experiences—that sparked something. I felt the character’s need to speak quietly, to creep through the world, unnoticed by even the smallest things—or, at least, not disturbing them. Playacting successfully for the span of a human life. What kind of things would such a person hide? Finally, there was a shiver of pleasure at the thought: a sense of surreptitiousness, like I been let in on a joke. That’s when I knew the story was ready to be written. It demanded it.
Sometimes I know where stories come from (an idea, a pet peeve, or so on) but other times they just emerge, like this one did. I’ve made peace with the process! Sigmund Freud has a footnote in The Interpretation of Dreams that says something along the lines of (and here I’m paraphrasing) no matter how we may try to determine the meanings and symbolism of our dreams, there is a point of no return, the dream’s “mycelium” that descends down into an abyss that we have no access to, that evades all kind of rationales and logics. I like that idea of mystery; I never want to produce easy or simplistic stories.
I imagine that this capsizing ability would make one more sympathetic to other living creatures. Did that factor into the choice to make your MC pacifist with his violent emotions and his abilities? How crucial was using the stone as his capsizing mechanism of choice in shifting that perspective?
Yes, absolutely!
I think the MC is actually quite repulsed by other life forms—he possesses a complete lack of empathy, but more than that, he finds the idea of other human bodies quite distasteful. He enjoys the fly, because it is so simple, and allows him to focus on the physical sensations of its body (that displace his own violent disgust at his cousin)—but that “capsizing” happens by accident, and it’s deliberate that he chooses not to use another living thing as a vessel.
The scariest part for me is that, in some ways, the MC can at least pass as a somewhat sympathetic character: He would define this as a kind of victory in that he does not physically hurt anyone, no matter how much he wants to. How many people do we know, or pass by, that might have the most horrendous feelings and never act on them? Narcissists are somewhat easy to identify in life, as are people who are loud, or rude, or aggressive. But what about the quiet ones, the “sleepers”? In other words: If a human being goes through life behaving ethically, while having the most terrible thoughts, is that a kind of moral victory? I think this is all a way of saying I’m fascinated by people: the little glacier tip we present in everyday life, and the submerged vastness of our histories and upbringings and beliefs and genetics that we carry with us, beneath the surface.
The stone is a calming presence for the MC—and was actually inspired by a moment I had in a crystal shop, in LA, where I was suddenly aware of the “presence” of all those geodes around me, experiencing them as an observing chorus. It was unnerving, but also oddly comforting. That’s what the MC gets from the stone: an odd comfort, and a refuge, an act of being lifted out of his body’s terrible wants.
If you could have any “totem” to capsize into, what would it be and why?
Probably a big sparkly geode, per the previous answer! I like the boundedness of the mineral: the beauty of it, being able to “see” out of, say, a plane of quartz, but with vision filtered, reality one tangible abstraction away. Being connected, too, to something ancient and planetary. I think that would be peaceful.
What horror stories, be they books or movies, have most influenced your work and your style as a writer? What’s one horror book and one movie you believe every budding horror writer must see.
Oh gosh, how long have you got!
First of all: Alien (1979, Ridley Scott). The dyad of sensuality and cruelty represented by H.R. Giger’s xenomorph has been creative rocket fuel for me over the years. That would be my “must see” film for any aspiring horror writer.
I did read a lot of Stephen King over the years, and I think “Not Even a Fly” feels like quite a King-esque story, or at least my interpretation of one! Perhaps I flatter myself too much. He’s so great at pulling you through a story, and building an almost unbearable sense of dread.
However, for a book recommendation, I would pick Doris Lessing’s Briefing for a Descent into Hell. It’s not really a horror novel, despite the title—but it’s a magnificent example of writing a truly bizarre narrative, enfolding horror and grief, with utter commitment to the art, no matter how strange it gets. It has so much heart, and is so full of feeling. I think any great horror story brings with it a sense of sorrow and a terrible tenderness that we might, in the moment, not know what to do with.
What else have you got coming out? What are you working on, and where can people read more of your incredible work?
This has actually been a wild year in terms of publications for me! I have stories forthcoming in Lightspeed, Haven Spec, and a reprint in Apex, and I’ve just finished a novel manuscript ready to query with this fall.
Wearing my nonfiction hat, I have an article on Pokopia (yes!) forthcoming in the LA Review of Books, and a book chapter on genre fiction in the forthcoming The Cambridge Companion to the Fiction of the Harlem Renaissance.
Links to all of my works can be found on my website, phoenixalexanderauthor.com, and I’m on Instagram @alexander.phoenix and BlueSky @dracopoullos.bsky.social.
