Interview with
Adriana Trigiani
Recipient of the
Appalachian Heritage WriterÕs Award, October 1, 2008, Presented by The Shepherd
University Foundation, The West Virginia Humanities Council, and The West
Virginia Center for the Book,
By David Owen Hoffman
and Sylvia Bailey Shurbutt
D&S: Your wonderful books make us set aside our stereotypes of the Appalachia
and of the people of the region, of Italians and other groups and types. Did you purposefully set out to have
this effect on your readers or is this one of the happy by-products of good
writing?
Trigiani: Thank you for your compliment. I donÕt really set out with a goal, but
soon find, when entering the world of my characters, that they tell me what I
need to know about themselves and their world. I know this sounds a little nutty, and perhaps it is, but
the subconscious really rules the process of writing. I consider myself a conduit, a wire between the lives of the
characters and my beloved audience, the readers. I set out to entertain you, to engage you and, hopefully, to
move you emotionally to think about things (whatever those things happen to
be!). As for stereotypes, I believe they are a by product of
elitism. I was taught that every
person is valuable—and that includes their point of view. I would never condescend to anyoneÕs
experience—that includes rich people by the way—after all, there
are even rampant stereotypes of them in literature and the dramatic arts. Having said that, I come from working
people, and thatÕs where IÕm comfortable writing my stories, itÕs what I know.
D&S: Your signature humor is part of the appeal of your stories. The laughter is certainly part of your
own personality and general outlook, but do you find other benefits from
sprinkling the pages of your books with humor?
Trigiani: I prayed for brains and beauty—but
was given ÒfunnyÓ instead. The talent I have, above all others, is a sense of
humor. It may actually be my only gift—and I milk it for all itÕs
worth. Also, I see the world as a
hilarious place—and therefore, it comes with the territory of creativity—the
written and spoken word (in my case).
I believe also, that I inherited my comic timing from my father—who
had a killer pause in conversation—that you find in the delivery of the
great comedians. IÕm not nearly as
funny, but I do all right in that regard.
D&S: One of the wonderful things about the Big Stone Gap books in particular, but all your books in general,
is the interspersing of wonderful recipes—food becoming a lovely
accompaniment to events and intricate relationships between the
characters. Yet one imagines that
food is much more in the books than an accoutrẻment to characters and
actions. What are you aiming for
with the association of food in the stories, particularly in terms of the
recipes?
Trigiani: I love to cook, so IÕm always
collecting recipes—but in truth, I didnÕt put them in the novels because
of that—I remember in the hometown paper, The Big Stone Gap Post (donÕt want to say The Post because you might think I mean the Washington
Post) that about one third of
the content was recipes—or announcements about church suppers—(a
roll and coffee was always part of a covered dish supper—and it was
advertised as such). Anyway, I just looked at taste as one of the great senses
that needed play in storytelling.
I like to make my reader hungry when he or she is reading—it goes
back to my own experience: the cheese Grandfather gave Heidi, for example—I
just like reading and eating together.
D&S: In many of the Big Stone Gap
books there are references to mountain top removal, with the issue playing a
significant role in Home to Big Stone Gap, your latest in the series.
Some years ago, we presented to Denise Giardina the Appalachian Heritage
WriterÕs Award, and she too felt strongly about the topic. What has been your experience with
mountain top removal, and why have you decided to make this issue part of your
work?
Trigiani: I come from a family that was green
before it was cool. We didnÕt use
paper towels, we took care of stuff—we were never wasteful. One of the first lessons I was taught
was to never, ever litter. Leave
the world better than you found it—was a popular phrase growing up. We have one planet—and the human
race will not survive if we donÕt take care of the world for the future
generations. It may look like a
mountain that isnÕt doing much—but in fact, a mountain is an ecosystem,
part of a whole—and if you slice off the top off it, and poison rivers,
kill vegetation (The Appalachians ARE the American rain forest!) and lose
people in the process, what is it exactly that we gain? Short term profits do not yield long
term sustenance. This is so much
deeper an issue than how things look, though if youÕve seen the mountains after
Mountain Top Removal, it looks like the results of the nuclear holocaust—this
is about what we value and how much we value the world for future
generations.
D&S: The wonderful story about how you turned Big Stone Gap into a novel from a screen play allows us some
insight into your work habits—a strict writing regimen during a six-month
period in 1996, from 3:00 a.m. until
8:00 a.m. while juggling responsibilities in your day job at Showtime. You
have said, ÒIÕm very disciplined. Writing is not a job I do; itÕs the way I
live.Ó Can you explain what you
mean, and describe the remarkable writing process that allows you to craft a
novel a year, while directing, traveling, and being a mom and wife.
Trigiani: Writing is not a career, itÕs a
calling. IÕm compelled to it—have
to do it, need to do it. I canÕt
separate what I do from who I am.
Writing is not a job that leaves you at 5:00 p.m.—the characters
stay with me while IÕm awake, the scenes play through when I sleep—itÕs a
constant—even as IÕm writing this, part of my brain is off in the midst
of a scene that needs rewriting. If I go to a movie—often my mind wanders
to whatever IÕm working on—and my husband catches me talking to myself—a
lot. My dear friend Stewart
Wallace, the composer (wrote the opera of The BonesetterÕs Daughter by Amy Tan which opens in San Francisco in the
fall of 2008) and we get together and have a good laugh about being artists—and
the irony of calling what we do a Òcareer.Ó ItÕs not a Òcareer,Ó Stewart always says—there are no
guarantees, thereÕs no gold watch at the end, you can not be an artist for
profit—because we believe there isnÕt enough money in the world to pay
someone for creating art. So we
bob and weave with it—and apply professional principles to what appears
to be a career—and attempt the business side outside of the process of
making the art—and hope for the best.
Now
to the work habits:
I
donÕt have a secret formula. I
knew, at the start, that what made me special was not that I was at the top of
the class, had the best test scores, could baton twirl or was a star athlete—I
was ordinary. Am ordinary! But I did know I liked watching other
people do what they do best—it was always intriguing. You could say that I love an expert—an
expert anything. I liked watching
my grandmother make pasta—and I loved watching my dad play the
piano. I revere the nuts and bolts—the
process.
I knew that if I worked hard, I could
become the best artist I could possibly be. (For the record, I am not nearly
there yet!) ThatÕs really all I
had to go on. I just knew I could
do this if I worked at it. This,
of course, is the cornerstone of discipline: a belief that the talent is at the
core, but itÕs useless unless it is honed. Discipline is a dirty word in a lot of circles, because it
requires sacrifice. But I donÕt
know how else you get where you want to be, unless you give up something that
might be fun in order to get there.
When
I moved to New York City and lived in a boarding house, I wanted to stay out
and party after I did a show with my comedy group, but I had to get up early
the next day, and so very early on, in my early 20Õs, I developed a habit of
going to bed early and rising early.
I stayed out of a lot of trouble that way too. And also, I learned that my brain worked while I slept—the
power of the subconscious mind (that again!) and I was able to wake up and work
seamlessly—because my brain never slept. This technique is the basis for the process—itÕs how I
am able to juggle projects and write a book a year. IÕve learned how to harness the energy of my brain around
the clock.
Also,
I wonÕt rest until I get it ÒrightÓ or close—that is to say, that I
achieve what IÕm trying to say in a scene—have I said what it is IÕm
trying to say to the best of my ability?
Have I made the scene crackle and hum—have I served the story? Is
it surprising—does it flow into a greater whole? Does something happen in
this scene that progresses the story of the novel? This is what the craft of
writing is all about—engaging the reader in a story he or she does not
want to put down told by characters that they relate to and perhaps want to
be!
I
listen to my readers, I share with them, and I am very grateful because they
give me a creative life—the ability to make a living by the stories that
I dream about. Now, having said
all that—how does a person live a life with a family and do it? There are days when I believe itÕs
impossible. I come from a family
that never went on vacation—we were self-employed, therefore, we worked
constantly. This is not necessarily
good—I read magazines where people take a month and go places, and I
think—How does George Clooney do it? I have an ongoing daily conversation
with Michael Patrick King (the writer/director), and we marvel at how artists
before us have done it, lived exciting, bon vivant existences while creating great art. When we read the Letters of Noel
Coward—a very prolific
writer who knew how to take several holidays a year, we yearn for his schedule,
his ability to travel and have fun, all the while percolating new ideas for the
next project. The trick, we seem
to think, from our research, is to turn the trip into a learning experience,
and therefore, itÕs rest AND work.
Alas, this does not come easily, but maybe by the end of my life, I will
have at least come close to trying to succeed at the balance.
As
for being a mother, I drop everything when Lucia comes into the room. I have learned this over the course of
her life (sheÕs six!)—I donÕt want to miss a second of her childhood—but
again, balance and restraint is called for. I donÕt want to look back and say I wasnÕt present, but I
donÕt want to be the hovering mother either. I work at home—and itÕs a blessing and a curse. My old habits of rising early—help—but
she senses it and gets up with me—and that defeats the purpose of working
in the wee hours. But thatÕs
okay. Life is brief—and at
the end of it, I hope I can look at her and say, I did my best by you. And the same goes for my husband.
D&S: YouÕve excelled at both screen writing and fiction—how are they
alike and how different, other than the obvious? What is your approach and process when you are working in
each genre?
Trigiani: Writing novels is one thing—screenplays
another—teleplays another still—and plays for the theater another
yet! Having done them all, and
still continuing to cross pollinate as an artist—I have no hard and fast
rules. But let me share this. I was educated as a playwright. The shape of my novels came from the
experience of writing plays. A
play tells the story of one characterÕs life (at least mine did), and so, all
the action must somehow move the character forward and change her. The fundamentals of drama have served
me well.
I believe my dialogue is sharp in the
novels because of my experience working with actors. I hear every character differently, therefore write their
voices to suit who they are.
Nothing worse than a novel where all the characters sound alike—having
to go back and re-read to catch the authorÕs intent is a pain. So, IÕm very aware at cutting the suit
differently for each character. I
was trained after college, in my early years in New York City by Ruth Goetz,
half of the great team of Ruth and Augustus Goetz, who wrote, among other
plays, The Heiress. I received a classical tutorial for
four years in my early 20Õs from her—and she was a relentless
taskmaster. I learned a lot about
structure from her. These forms
are all very different—and I would have to spend a few pages writing
about the fundamentals of each—but when it comes to novels—I love
writing them—because IÕm free.
ThereÕs no budget to cut, no scene thatÕs too long—and no boss
telling me it can not be done. I
can do anything I wish in my novels, and that has been the greatest gift of all
to me.
D&S: You have said that Òrejection is a regular, routine part of being an
artist.Ó Can you share with
aspiring writers some of your thoughts about rejection?
Trigiani: My advice is: get used to it. It comes from everywhere—and now,
with the internet, anybody can say anything about anybody anytime and it goes
out into the world like itÕs a fundamental truth—but of course, we know
itÕs just an opinion—but those opinions can sting. At this point in my life, and IÕm going
to be very direct here, I will let it hurt my feelings for ten minutes and
then, I move on. Really, itÕs the
only solution to the age old problem. There is only so much time—and IÕm
not going to waste it worrying about something I can not control. Also, I try
to find something helpful in criticism—and sometimes, I find something
useful that helps me grow. Again,
if you work hard—and do your best—thatÕs all you can expect of
yourself. But you have to know
youÕve done your best—and that takes time, lots of time—and lots of
dedication.
D&S: Rococo was a departure for
your narrative point of view, in that the story is told from a maleÕs
perspective. Unlike some writers
who talk about the difficulty of narrating in the skin of the opposite gender,
you have indicated that becoming Bartolomeo di Crespi in that book was as
natural as slipping into a different pair of shoes. Share some of the creative process of capturing this or any
character.
Trigiani: I donÕt know where it comes from. IÕm
there with the characters from the first line—and they take me through
their story. DonÕt know HOW it
even HAPPENS. I heard Bartolomeo
so loud and clear—and there are days that I still do. All of my characters fascinate me—and
when IÕm writing, I actually think IÕm going to run into them. Art is born in a place that has no gender,
and no judgments—I just let it happen.
D&S: In ÒThe Art of Fiction,Ó Henry James spoke about the Òalchemy of artÓ
and the creative mind to change the smallest event in real life into vivid
fictional life. You have been able to transform so many events from your own
life and those of family and friends into the pages of your fiction; often even
the most minute, seemingly insignificant detail becomes the donneẻ or
seed for a story or episode in your writing. What are your thoughts about blending real and fictional
life, and what is the reaction of those around you when you do this?
Trigiani: I get beat up for this sometimes—(my
friend Rosanne Cash and I talk about this a lot—our points of view as
artists) but hereÕs the truth: I remember what I remember, and I see what I
see, and I describe it thusly—and relay it in my fashion.
I
have a dreamy memory. I find
beauty in things that others have said are ugly, I remember things as beautiful
when often, to others, they are not.
I do not like the underbelly, I like to turn the underbelly over and let
it dry in the sun. I remember things as funny—whereas to somebody else,
it was far from funny. I paint
with a dreamy brush. When someone
has been cruel, I find a way to try and understand why. When I have anger, I move through it—not
make it a way of life. I
forgive, I overlook—and repaint and restyle and refashion. I believe in denial—I believe in
pretend—I believe in creating a world that begets the lovely. I am comforted by gorgeous surroundings—soft
chairs covered in sumptuous fabrics, a hot mug of coffee, candles lit, books
opened—these things take the rough edges off of life—I create peace—beauty
(my version of it), ambience—knowing the setting, calm and lovely will
create the place where the emotions will follow. I do this at work—I do this at home, and I do it in
hotel rooms.
Thank
God IÕm writing fiction! I have a license to make things pretty. Now, this is
not to say that my characters in their worlds do not grieve, are not hurt, do
not suffer and are immune to tragedy. Far from it! All the guts of life are laid bare in my work—I just
happen to think that choosing someone to share your life with is possibly the
most daring choice a person can make—and losing that person—equally
life altering. Or having a child—this
simple human step—to me—is overwhelming and divine and frightening—you
see—the real stuff is the daring stuff—to me.
Now,
back to the dream state, and my dreamy memory.
HereÕs
an example of what I see versus what the practical person sees: when I went
home to Big Stone Gap with the movieÕs producers and I showed them the coal
transom between Appalachia and Big Stone Gap, I had described it to them as a
glittering structure strung with Christmas lights, and I described the coal
chute as a magical tube that delivered black diamonds. When we got to the site, they stood
there awhile in front of this old broken down steel structure, overgrown with
weeds—and finally, somebody said, ÒAdri, whereÕs the glitter?Ó But I remembered it as so. I remembered that transom as awesome
and magical. My memories, are MY
memories. To someone else, well,
they are something else entirely—their memories. No right and wrong—just
different. And thatÕs what makes
horse racing!
D&S: One of the important themes in your books is the Òoutsider.Ó Sometimes
your outsiders are alienated by virtue of ethnicity, sometimes by gender or
some other factor. Why do you
consider this such a significant and relevant idea today? In what ways have you felt yourself to
be a Òferriner,Ó as you have expressed this idea for the ÒoutsiderÓ?
Trigiani: We would have world peace if we
recognized that there is no such thing as an outsider. Now, thereÕs a giant
theme at work! We are all
part of a whole—but alas, we donÕt always act like it. I try always, to focus on what binds me
to other people—not what separates me. Having said that, itÕs a good lesson for every person to
have been a ÒferrinerÓ—to know what it is to have to survive by your wits—and
to prove that you are worthy. It
builds character—and sometimes, from the rubble, an artist is born.
D&S: Several of our Appalachian Heritage writers have
found that it took leaving the region to be able to articulate Appalachia in
their fiction or poetry—Robert Morgan is perhaps one of the best examples
to come to mind. You left Big
Stone Gap at 18 and then after college spent most of your working life in New
York City. In Big Stone Gap you write, ÒSometimes you have to strip away
everything to find what you were in the first place.Ó How does ÒdistanceÓ allow you to be a better
writer? How important do you think
place or region is to good writing?
Trigiani: Well, distance has its distinct
benefits. Distance lessens pain,
rejection, suffering, and misunderstandings. Distance, looking back in memory, can send the writer
into a dream state, if she or he is willing to go there. Distance hopefully, ultimately is the
path to wisdom found. With
separation, with time, a person can see all sides—not just her own—and
figure out somewhere in the criss-cross of the paths, where the truth
lies. But, not always. I had a glorious small town
upbringing—not perfect—but vivid, memorable in its detail. I had a very emotional father and,
though sheÕs Italian, a stoic and elegant mother—who was very, very kind
(still is!) and full of love for her children (still is). I come from a big family—and therefore,
as a middle child, knew my place.
Every person in my family has a different story- and a different point
of view. Distance has helped me
understand that—and allow for ÒairÓ in the memories. I ask respectfully, always, that they
allow me my memories—and my point of view.
Readers
are by nature, great travelers. One of the gifts of reading is free travel that
comes with picking up a book. A reader may want to go to Africa, and she or he
can do so in a great read. Readers
want to go to southwest Virginia, so they pick up a novel of the
Appalachians. I like non-fiction
autobiographies because I like to enter a life on the ground floor, from the
perspective of the person living it.
I find I can almost inhabit places created by the writer who is telling
the tale. For me, good writing is illuminating something I never heard of—or
showing me someplace IÕve never been—or know so well, itÕs in my
pores. I like being taught, and I
like being heard—and great writing brings both to the table.
D&S: All your fictional stories draw upon
the past in a creative and dynamic way—whether you are writing about
Italian American life in the 1920s or Appalachian small-town life in the
1970s. Share your thoughts on how
the past informs, frames, and transforms present and future time for us.
Trigiani: IÕm comfortable in the past—maybe because
most of the critics in the past are dead.
ThatÕs a joke. I like the
past because I love hearing about it—and reading about it—and because
life moved in real time—not in this instantaneous cyber pace we live in
now. My most recent novel, Very Valentine, takes place now in Greenwich Village where I
live; but itÕs about old world craftsmanship, shoemaking by hand. I reveled in
the research, and had to slow down and really look at the moment in a way I had
not done in other novels. I had to
think about what we are feeling now—the state of the world, without
piling non-essential claptrap into my story. We are still human beings—and IÕm still a human being
writing about being one—we still need time to feel, to connect, to fall
in love—or not to—to grieve, to own the landscapes of our own
hearts. You canÕt do that by text
messaging.
Why
do I like the past? Well, you
could have a feeling in 1910—and hold on to it. Now, life is rushed: you better have that feeling,
understand it and move through it—because the assault continues as long
as the batteries arenÕt working on whatever gizmo we communicate with this
day. People are lonelier than
ever, maybe that has something to do with spending our days looking down at
Blackberries instead of up into the faces of actual human beings.
This
rush is not good for anybody—and it concerns me as a mother. ThereÕs no time to think anymore—and
this is a tragic thing—we need contemplation, deliberation, meditation!
We need the quiet, the company of our own counsel, the connection to spirit—to
grow and to experience life fully.
The old saying—We are not human beings having a spiritual
experience; we are spirits having a human experience—is something I think
about everyday. I try and move in
the world as a spirit—and simply be—not easy when beepers, bells
and whistles are going off. An
artist must go inward—and modern times do not assist our process.
D&S: You have shared in other interviews your personal favorite authors and
books—Charlotte BronteÕs Jane Eyre, ThoreauÕs Walden,
WilliamsÕ A Streetcar Named Desire,
MillerÕs Death of a Salesman, The
Confessions of St. Augustine, the
books of Bobbie Ann Mason, Lee Smith, and others—but what were the
specific literary influences on your own storytelling and style?
Trigiani: ThereÕs a wonderful movie director in
Hollywood named Liz Allen, who is working on a movie about the life of Beverly
Cleary (who wrote the childrenÕs books Ramona, and Fifteen, and
The Luckiest Girl). Mrs. Cleary also wrote autobiographies
that I enjoyed (The Girl From Yam Hill). I met with Liz in Los
Angeles for tips and advice about directing Big Stone Gap. She
had read the book and asked me if I was a Beverly Cleary fan. I told her I was (I read Fifteen a thousand times and the Luckiest Girl just as many!), and Liz said, ÒI knew it! I could
tell from your writing.Ó Beverly
Cleary writes a good story—plain and directly. The emotions are real—but the style is clear, very
very clean. I am, by nature,
wordy, florid and over the top with descriptions, explanations and outbursts in
words. My brilliant editor Lee
Boudreaux helps me stay plain and clear.
ItÕs always funny to me when I get a letter and the reader says, you
write so simply. Because I really
really really have to work at simple, and I admire it in others. Emerson, Thoreau, the BronteÕs, the
great playwrights—they write of complex emotions in a very direct
fashion. ThatÕs my goal—thatÕs
what I work towards. Sometimes I succeed, and the rest of the time? Forgive
me. IÕm still crafting and
learning.
D&S: Several of our Appalachian Heritage writers have noted the importance of
storytelling. In reference to your
childhood pastime of playing with author cards instead of Old Maid, you said: ÒI
loved what they wrote and had to say. . . . I love to tell stories—and I
love to hear them.Ó Is there an
early, particular or favorite story that you loved hearing—and could
share with us now?
Trigiani: So, so many stories I could write
here. I weave some into my novels—so
you can find them there—stories my grandmothers told me. In particular, I love the stories of
how my grandmother Lucia fell in love with her husband Carlo, and how my
grandmother Viola fell in love with her husband Michael. I keep the wedding cake topper from
ViolaÕs wedding under glass in my living room—the figurine on the cake
topper is dressed circa 1932, in a drop waist dress with a bobbed haircut! These stories are special to me, and I
find, as I write them, or alter them in books, that my readers share similar
stories. Our exchange is one of
the best gifts this life of writing has brought to me. I canÕt believe the connections
sometimes, the similarities.
D&S: WhatÕs your next project mulling about in your mind?
Trigiani: At home: my daughter enters first grade—my
husband is nominated for an Emmy for lighting on The Late Show with David
Letterman. I am mulling a win
for him! For me: two sequels to Very
Valentine—and three
young adult novels called The Viola Chesterton Chronicles—and . . . making the movie Big Stone Gap—and looking ahead and beyond, savoring these days, because they wonÕt
come around again.
August 12, 2008