Every Story Has a Story:
The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break
I first encountered Steven Sherrill when he was doing a reading of his novel Visits from the Drowned Girl for Iowa Public Radio at the Prairie Lights Bookstore in Iowa City. Steven especially caught my attention when I heard him say that he barely revised and that his novel, The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break, began as a poem when he was a student at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.
His path to Iowa began interestingly enough, following his earning of a welding degree from Mitchell Community College in North Carolina. He received the National Endowment of the Arts Fellowship in Fiction for 2002, and his stories and poems have appeared in Best American Poetry, Kenyon Review, River Styx, Georgia Review, and many other publications. His latest novel, The Locktender’s House, was published in 2008 by Random House. Currently Steven is an Associate Professor of English and Integrative Arts at Penn State Altoona. This interview happened over the course of several phone conversations in 2006.
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You seem to have an interesting writing process. Your novel The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break was a poem by the same name several years before it became a book. I also heard you say that you don’t revise. Could you talk a little bit about how you got started with the first book?
I wrote The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break as a novel stemming from a poem written many years earlier with the exact same title and pretty much the exact same premise. When I was in Iowa City, I remember walking across the bridge from the art building to the union and the title just landed in my head. I was coming home from modeling for art classes, but I don’t remember thematically why the Minotaur was in my brain. Within a day, the poem was finished.
A poem done in a day. That doesn’t sound like a process I’m very familiar with.
It was a poem that was kind of gifted to me. I’m sure as a writer you’ve had those experiences where sometimes the piece just comes practically done and you feel like it was given to you by something greater.
What kind of response did the poem get?
It got some nice attention in the workshop and from my now ex-wife. She liked it so much that she called her family and read it to them. I sent it out, and it was published.
When did you begin to consider The Minotaur as a book?
Nearly five years later. I had just read Marie Darrieussecq’s Pig Tales: A Novel of Lust and Transformation. I was on an airplane with my wife and my beautiful new daughter, and it was one of those half-sleep stages. My head was up against the window of the airplane and it just hit me.
Your reading of Darrieussecq’s novel was the catalyst for turning the poem into a book?
There was something magical in that novel where a human character turns into a pig in one of those very strange, surreal, French sort of ways. That’s the kind of book The Minotaur ended up being. I had read Darrieussecq’s book not too long before the trip, and I had a conscious thought, that I could turn the Minotaur poem into a novel.
In turning the poem into a novel, were you doing something that you had heard of others doing?
No, I hadn’t heard of anyone doing that before. For as long as I’ve been writing, I’ve written poems and stories and have always felt free to mine one for the sake of the other. I’ve often used lines in poems that have shown up in stories and vice versa.
At the time you were on the plane, were you looking for an idea for a novel?
I wanted to write a novel. I had started several before when I was much younger and stopped. The process I used to write The Minotaur was fairly logical. I made an outline—I don’t like to call it an outline because it sounds too rigid. I made a thorough plan, a map of where I wanted the book to go. Much of the language of the poem is contained in the first few pages of the novel. Tonally, I knew exactly where I wanted to end up. I didn’t know the last scene, but I knew emotionally where I wanted to be when I got to the end. I had a very clear path, and all of these moments I wanted to get to, and some of them were written specifically for the book and some of them were just moments that I knew I’d like to put into a piece of fiction at some point. In the early stages of the writing, it was less about making a linear map and more about gathering information, material, scenes, character ideas, and details—all randomly. At some point in all three of my novels, I’ve just opened up my head and whatever comes out goes into a pile for possible use.
What happens after you’ve got the pile of material for possible use?
The second stage of my writing process is filtering some of that stuff out. I ask myself questions: What’s not going to work? What am I really committed to writing? For example, I might commit to specific events taking place within the novel. After that, I’ll take what’s left and put it into some sort of order. Then I write myself from point A to point B until I get to the end.
After you filtered through the pile of possible use, do you remember what you thought you were committed to writing?
It was the first novel I had written. Probably, what I enjoyed most as the number of pages grew was that I was actually going to finish it. I got more and more excited as I got more and more written. I kept telling myself, “I’ve actually started a novel. Now I’m halfway through it. It’s almost done.”
You mentioned that you wanted to get the Minotaur as a main character from emotional point A to emotional point B. Could you say more about that?
I not only meant emotional spots but also physical spots. I wanted the Minotaur to be doing this at this time in the book. For example, I knew I wanted to get him stuck in a phone booth.
This next question probably comes from my experience as a composition teacher, or maybe from the idea that you believe in a plan. Lots of writers and teachers—for example, someone like Donald Murray—stress the importance of allowing for surprise when writing. Even though you had a plan and even though this book came first as a poem that seemed almost done, were there still times that you found yourself surprised by what you were writing?
Always, always, always, and the surprises work at many levels. The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break and Visits from the Drowned Girl didn’t have a lot of revision. I claimed before I wrote the third book that I didn’t revise; I have since revised that statement. However, I do still maintain that much of my revision takes place in my head.
How do you account for the little time that you spent revising the first two books?
I think a lot; I’m impatient, and I don’t like to go backwards. There are lots of surprises coming out, but I’m not one of those writers who will sit down and write a huge block and whittle out what’s good in it. I don’t like to do that; it’s not how I work.
If you don’t write huge blocks of words, how much do you write?
If I’m having a bad day, I’ll sit there all day long and get only a paragraph. That’s okay. Other days when I seem to be in some sort of zone, I’ll get ten pages. I have many writer friends that like to find those surprises and discoveries by writing furiously. That’s not the way I want to find my discoveries. I believe that sitting patiently will make something click, and then I can go into it. But the short answer to your question about surprise is that I find that a lot of the passages that get praised in all the books are the ones that I discovered in the writing. That’s one of the reasons I want to move further and further away from a fully fleshedmout plan of action so I can explore those moments in between. My challenge for one of the books down the road is to avoid a map and see if I can hold it together in discovering what happens.
So when the first draft of The Minotaur was done, did you read it again and if so, what were you looking for?
I let some friends read it, but I didn’t go back through it very much. Unless there have been big chunks of time between my periods of writing, I’m not going to start the reading over.
Why not read the book again?
I’ll confess to being a little bit lazy, but every time I go back into a book I can make a change or an edit and redirect something, and I don’t like that process as much as I like going on to the next project. One of the things I am willing to do as a novelist, if I try to think about what might be a whole career or a list of my books on some continuum, is to make public my developmental stages, my process, and any errors that may or may not be in the writing. I don’t mind having whatever weaknesses or flaws that are in The Minotaur be there because I want to get on to the next book.
Is the idea that everyone has flaws and some of those flaws are going to find their way out into life one way or another? You’re saying the perfect book can’t be written.
Right, if you keep going back and correcting and correcting then you’re using energy that you’re not using going forward.
When you submitted the book, it was accepted pretty much as is?
All the books have been really different. With The Minotaur, there was very little structural change. It was more about the addition of a couple scenes where the editor thought the pace could be slowed down. We’re talking a page and a half maybe.
You had a different experience in writing Visits from the Drowned Girl?
There was a little more required in the editorial process. It was picked up by a different publishing house and they thought the book had an unrelenting darkness that wouldn’t sell. People who came from The Minotaur and expected the same kind of experience in Visits from the Drowned Girl were going to find that it just consciously wasn’t there. I considered making some changes to the book, but then The Minotaur started doing so well that my agent told me that I didn’t have to make those changes if I didn’t want to. I said no to the changes and Random House ended up picking up the book.
What about the third one?
It’s proving totally different in both the writing and the editorial stages. I’ve really struggled in the writing of this book and there’s been a lot of revising. I don’t lack confidence in the material, but I don’t know how objectively I can speak about its structure. With this third book, I’m open to so much more in the way of editorial suggestion than I was with the other two.
These problems with the third book seem to have arisen as planned in the sense that you are consciously looking for something new when it comes to the experience of creating a book.
Yes, exactly.
And this is probably some of what is keeping you intellectually engaged in the writing?
I hope so. I could never do a sequel to The Minotaur. At least on a deeper level, I’m not interested in repeating the process over again. Of course if someone gave me a million dollars to do a sequel, I’d do it and pay off some student loans. It’s funny to me that I made the statement that I don’t revise and then am having this experience with the third book. I’ve really liked all the new discoveries I made while revising it.
You wrote a successful first book but continue to reflect upon and tinker with your process. Why?
Writing was the only thing I could do early in life that gave me any kind of validation as a person. Charging into my imagination and challenging my imagination is an act that has given me consistent satisfaction and validation in the living of my life. If I’m not refining my process, I’m not challenging my imagination.
What helps you to work through talks of revision with an agent and/or an editor?
I think you have to have a lot of ego, confidence, or arrogance to write a novel. I won’t back away from something that I believe is crucial to the book even if it means avoiding the contract.
After starting several books and giving up, what do you think finally helped you succeed at completing The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break?
I think it was my little plan of writing from point A to point B all the way to point Z. Because of that plan, I was able to keep doubt and insecurity at bay. Since I’d begun thinking of myself as a writer, even when I was kid, I’d probably started a dozen novels. Some of them got no further than one hand-written paragraph. I didn’t know what I’d find at the end of The Minotaur because I tried not to look at the whole project. The map allowed me to focus on the next forward step. I had awareness of where I’d come from so I knew how the book was shaping, up and I trusted that my process was going to lead me to the next step, but I didn’t allow myself to think of the whole novel at once.
I often point out to students that if I they can write a page a day for a year, they’ll have 365 pages of manuscript. If they’re able to focus on a topic, they’ll have a first draft of a book.
I agree, and that was the strategy I absolutely took with the writing of The Minotaur. After the first book was published, I had more and less confidence. As I began the second book, I’d already proven that I could write a novel and so on that level I had more confidence. However, I also had the undermining thought, “Can I do it again?”
And you were able to do it again.
Yes, and it was the writing strategy of moving from point to point that got me through Visits from the Drowned Girl.
The idea seems to be that a beginning writer or a writer who is intimidated by the prospect of writing a novel can focus on a scene instead of the whole book. For example, in your book the main character is a cook, and he has a crush on one of the waitresses. Most of us would say that we could write one scene where he heads into the restaurant and interacts with the waitress.
And then the writer can take the character out of the restaurant and to the store to buy something and have him meet someone else. Those little steps are what allowed me to write my first two books. With the third book, I bit off more than I could chew. It was supposed to be a loose parody of the Bible. I talked about it and the direction it was going to go too much.
What similarities existed in the three ways that the books were written?
I like the idea of having a map. With each successive book I’ve tried to make that map more and more skeletal because even in the first book the passages that seemed somehow inspired or really fiery were the ones I discovered in the writing.
Is the opposite of a skeletal outline a fleshier one? Does that mean you are trying to move away from a detailed outline?
Yes, I want a more skeletal plan rather than having entire scenes written. I think having a map is a strategy that works. I did like having whole scenes in place, and I enjoyed that challenge too as a part of writing a book, but I really want to work towards a more skeletal plan. With the second book, I wrote more passages where I’d just have a note to myself that a character needed to begin in a certain place physically and or emotionally and by the end the passage should be in a different place. I had to figure out what happened between those places.
The skeletal outline that you refer to reminds me of The Minotaur‘s beginnings as a poem.
Yes, with the poem I had a scaffolding of structure which I then had to flesh out and build a novel.
But you’re trying different approaches with your process in each book?
In The Minotaur, I was using a thoroughly developed and explored character from literary history and then putting my spin on him. What inherently came with him was all of his history and baggage. When people read The Minotaur, they wonder how he can be cooking in a trailer park in the South when Theseus supposedly killed him in the labyrinth. I had all that reference material that didn’t even need to be said. The Minotaur was consciously not about plot and takes place over the course of a few weeks. It was about the absence of time because I cast the main character as an immortal creature. With my second book, plot was a conscious device. I wanted to write a book that was much more plot driven. I wanted something that would challenge my story-making skills. I was conscious of laying out scenes to pull the reader through the story in a different way than from The Minotaur.
Some writers and teachers would say that each writer and each writing act is so different that a study of process is fruitless. How would you respond?
Early on as a writer before I did any substantial publishing and way before I finished a novel, I was intrigued by books on writing craft and writing process. I think a look at other writers’ processes can help you define yourself as a writer. You can relate to this or try something and see if it works for you. It’s all about building internal confidence.
When you’re teaching writing—whether it’s at Penn State Altoona during the year or in Iowa at the summer writing festival—how much do you talk about process?
I try to lay out some process examples in the form of writing exercises, and I believe those exercises are valuable, but what I believe is more valuable and is demonstrated to me again and again is that it’s important to find ways to keep students off balance. I try to get the students thinking in ways that they wouldn’t normally think with the hope that they’ll surprise themselves. If I can help a student experience the joy of discovery in their writing and then follow that discovery or surprise to a finished piece of writing, then I’ve accomplished one of my goals as a teacher. I want them to trust that there will always be more surprises and discoveries.
Steven Sherrill is an artist with a welding degree who writes, paints, teaches, and plays the banjo. He is an associate professor of English and integrative arts at Penn State Altoona University. He earned an MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and was awarded a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in 2002. He has authored three novels, The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break, Visits from the Drowned Girl, and The Locktender’s House. Steven’s book of poems, Ersatz Anatomy, was published in November of 2010.
William Torgerson is an assistant professor in the Institute for Writing Studies at St. John’s University in New York. His novel, Love on the Big Screen, tells the story of a college freshman whose understanding of love has been shaped by late-eighties romantic comedies. It features an essay written by the protagonist that is a revision to an assignment William did while he was an undergraduate English major at Olivet Nazarene University in Illinois. The script adaptation of the novel was named as the Grand Prize winner of the Flickers Rhode Island International Film Festival Screenplay Competition. William’s novel-in-stories Horseshoe is forthcoming in the spring of 2012 and will be published by Cherokee McGhee Press. William’s work has been published in numerous scholarly and literary journals, and he believes that if you can read like a writer, then you can write anything. He would be delighted if you would join him for conversations connected to reading, writing, and teaching. You can find him in various digital locales beginning on his website and on Twitter @Bill_Torgerson.