Kelley Eskridge Discusses Her Debut Novel Solitaire
Gotta Write Network (December 2002)
interview by Cindy Speer
After reading Kelley Eskridge’s debut novel Solitaire it is no surprise to discover that she drew the delicate corporate world structure from her own life. As former Vice President of Wizards of the Coast (publishers of the Magic and Pokémon trading card games) she is well equipped to embark on an “authoritative examination of the interpersonal dynamics of corporations, and she shares with her character Jackal an expertise in facilitation, team building and management.” Her book also explores relationships in all forms, from friends and lovers, to strangers who share your life experiences (or wish to) to the strange alliance we have with our own mind.
Nominated for both the Tiptree and Nebula awards, her short fiction has appeared in Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers, The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror, Nebula Awards 31, and Women of Other Worlds.
Cindy: This is probably the question you get asked most, and for that I apologize — but what was your inspiration for Solitaire? Why did you create the world the way you did? What do you think the most important step in world building is?
Kelley: Solitaire was inspired by personal experience. For many years, my life was quite solitary and autonomous. I loved it; but I also got tired of the overwhelming number of cultural messages that tell us that “alone” is a terrible way to be. (One of my biggest hot buttons are restaurant hostpeople who say, “Just one for dinner?” Would they ever say, “Just two? Just ten?” Absolutely not. If hostpeople are reading this, get a clue.) Being alone is not terrible. It’s like any other kind of life, in my experience: the more one engages with it, the more one gets out of it. And some days are better than others.
During those years, I explored the power of solitude; when I met my partner, Nicola, I began to explore the power of connection. Solitaire reflects both these explorations. I wrote the book so that I could examine my own beliefs and experience in a different, more extreme, context. I chose to write it as speculative fiction because that’s the literary arena that allows a writer to use metaphor in the most concrete way. In a mainstream novel, Jackal Segura’s journey into her own internal landscape would have to be represented through some kind of metaphor system, or implied by her behavior. But in Solitaire, Jackal is able to literally travel into her own head. I didn’t have to spend time drawing parallels: I could cut to the chase and burrow into the psychology of loss of connection and emergence of individual identity.
My emphasis as a writer is on character. I’m probably the wrong person to ask about world-building. Solitaire has been criticized (fairly, I think) for being fuzzy around the edges at the macro level. I have a fairly clear idea of the political and social structure of the wider world that Jackal lives in, but I didn’t offer the reader a panoramic look at it: the point of view in the book is Jackal’s, and there’s a lot she takes for granted about her world.
I tried to make sure the world contained multiple cultures, that it was diverse in terms of race and class, and that I expressed it in ways that made it accessible to the reader. These ways include showing lots of different kinds of people, and trying to find particular details that could imply larger generalities about the world. For example, there’s a passing mention of the Green and Blue Houses of the Earth Government, and a brief scene with an Earth Congress Senator: this sets up lots of resonances with many of the republic-style governments in western culture, but the imagination of the specific structure of EarthGov is left as an exercise for the reader. I’m more comfortable with world-building that’s based on this kind of social or character detail. I dislike the use of gratuitous neologisms and high-tech gadgetry as a substitute for imagining a world full of real people in environments that reflect their character and experience. I wish now I’d edited Snow’s fingernail out of Solitaire; it’s there to assist Snow and Jackal in having a discussion about individual identity, but I’ll bet I could have found another way.
Cindy: I see a lot of social issues in this book, from comments about relationships to the price of punishment. Is there any particular message you want the reader to walk away with? What is the ideal thing you would like to accomplish in this book?
Kelley: I write to tell a story, not to send a message. I am not on fire to persuade anyone of anything: I burn to examine and express, to explore and question. In this way, writing is a particularly selfish activity: it’s all about what interests me, or puzzles me, or frightens me.
But there’s more to it than just me, me, me, or else I could simply write it and put it in a drawer. I want to tell stories that other people can connect with. It matters to me that the reader finds something of value to take away: a moment, a feeling, an idea. But not a message. That’s best left to nonfiction. Message stories are insulting to me as a reader. I don’t need to be told what to feel: I need to be drawn into a world that’s perhaps different from mine, but so well-realized that I can experience it in spite of the difference. If writing is “about” anything for me, it’s about building bridges, not about preaching sermons.
I have a need for connection and reaction. Writing provides this, in a sort of elongated feedback loop across time and space. I often look for ways to shorten this loop: it’s part of why I like to do public readings, and why I maintain the Virtual Pint section of my website (http://kelleyeskridge.com/VirtualPint.htm) where I can respond to comments and questions. Perhaps I should also write faster.
Cindy: How did you get your start? Do you have an agent? Why did you choose HarperCollins? Do you think an agent is essential for success today?
Kelley: I started in short fiction. I attended the Clarion Writer’s Workshop in 1988, where I wrote the story that became my first professional sale in 1990. Short stories are, for me, the ideal vehicle for growing as a writer. They demand rigorous attention to clarity of language and viewpoint, a streamlined metaphor system, and the precise selection of the moments necessary to create a specific experience. Novels demand, as far as I’ve learned, rigorous attention to structure and control of scope, along with a particular layering of action and metaphor that creates a density of experience for the characters and the reader. I’m biased toward the notion that character, language and scene are the foundation for all work of whatever length, and it made sense to me to practice these skills in short stories for a long time until I felt able to begin a novel.
I do have an agent, and I do think she is essential to my ability to publish professionally. Many publishers nowadays won’t accept unagented submissions, and negotiations are much easier with an intermediary, especially someone with experience who can explain to a writer why certain contractual points are or are not flexible. I think a writer’s success depends in part on building a professional team that includes a solid and honest relationship with an agent. I trust my agent to know the publishing landscape, and to have (or be willing to build) good working relationships with the editors I want to do business with. I trust her to give me her honest perspective of where my work fits into the market, and how I can improve my chances of reaching my goals. But I think it’s a mistake for a writer to expect an agent to provide the goals: I have to know where I want to go, and it’s her job to help me get there.
I didn’t choose HarperCollins, as it happens. I originally sold the book to Avon, which was later acquired by HarperCollins.
Here’s the story. My agent shopped Solitaire to all the major SF imprints, all of which rejected it. Then Jennifer Brehl created the Eos imprint at Avon Books. In 1996, my partner (novelist Nicola Griffith) and I were both nominated for Nebula Awards. Jennifer came to the Nebula ceremony to represent Eos, and arranged to have dinner with us because Nicola had just sold a book to a different division at Avon. During dinner, Jennifer asked if I was working on a novel, and then asked to see it. “Well, Avon already turned it down,” I said. “Well,” she answered, “I haven’t seen it.”
This was the first time I understood that, practically speaking, one doesn’t sell to a publisher: one sells to an editor, whose savvy and ability are integral to the fate of the book. I’ve seen firsthand that successful publication is a complex process which relies more on the skills of the individual editor, publicist, marketing and sales folk than it does on the reputation of the publishing house, or the quality of the book itself. I’ve been extremely fortunate to have a creative, effective team of people at HarperCollins work on my book, and the result is that although Solitaire is classified as genre fiction from a genre imprint, it has already been more of a publishing success than some novels from so-called literary imprints. This isn’t because it’s a better book, or because I’m better known: it’s because the people in my corner of HarperCollins have an effective working process, and have been willing to include me in it. The publisher’s reputation does make some difference, particularly getting review attention for the book, but that comes later. Without the leadership of a good editor, the best book in the world from the most prestigious imprint can still sink without a trace.
Cindy: What do you think is the most important thing for a writer starting out to know? What should they avoid?
Kelley: I think a writer starting out needs to know that writing and publishing are different, and there are things to learn about both. About writing, I would say: you have to do the work. It’s not magic. About publishing, I would say: play nicely and act like a grownup. Learn professional courtesy and then practice it.
The thing that’s been important for me is learning to love the process of writing. When I started out, I found little to love about actually doing the work. It was almost purely frustrating. Where was the magic glow I was supposed to be experiencing? Part of the problem was that I didn’t know as much about writing as I do now, so I didn’t have the same access to skills or ideas, or the same ability to look at a piece of work and understand what might be wrong with it, or how to make it better. Writing is a “practical” art in the literal sense — it takes a lot of practice to acquire both artistry and craft. This means that there’s usually a floundering stage that writers go through, where they are trying to acquire skills without having a clear notion of what all those skills are. The more colloquial way to express this is that most people have to write a lot of crap before they are able to write consistent quality prose on demand (which is part of my definition of an expert writer).
I spent many years hating to write, and loving “having written.” This is workable when one is writing short fiction, but became (at least for me) unbearable when I started the novel. So I had to learn to love the process as well as the result. That began to happen when I was able to say to myself, “This is not a race. I do not have to beat anybody to any finish line.” Instead, I found myself consciously striving to learn, and to do the best writing of which I was capable. That’s when I started having those wonderful moments that Stephen King describes (in Misery) as “falling down the rabbit hole.” It’s also when I realized that the 15,000 words of the novel I had written in the previous year were utter garbage, and that I had to throw them away. That was a lesson in patience, which is also my final piece of advice: impatience is not your friend, either in writing or in publishing. You will be engaged with the process for much more of your life than you are engaged with the result. Plan accordingly.
Cindy: What are you working on now? What are your future projects?
Kelley: I’m researching and outlining my next novel, which I’m not ready to discuss in public, except to say that it’s not a sequel to Solitaire. I have ideas for short fiction and other novels. I think it’s safe to say that, given time, I will wander all over the literary landscape into all sorts of genres. I sincerely hope that readers will be willing to wander with me.
Cindy: How do you feel about promotion? Are you into self promoting your work, and do you feel it’s important for a writer?
Kelley: I have ambivalent feelings about promotion. I think it’s unrealistic to believe that a writer can simply deliver regular bursts of brilliant prose into the hands of publishers and then sit back and watch the magic happen. This is not, in my experience, how it works. However, I think many writers choose impractical or, even worse, counterproductive ways to spend their promotional energy. Now that Solitaire is out in the world, I’m thinking a lot about what the goal of promotion is, and how I can best contribute.
I don’t think I serve myself or my writing by giving away bookmarks or mailing promotional postcards to the entire membership of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. I go to conventions to meet people and drink in the bar, but I don’t do panels — I find them unsatisfying at best, and stupidly competitive at worst. This is partly my problem — I don’t like to fight for attention — and partly a function of the general panel format, which encourages people to take positions rather than hold conversations.
At baseline, hammering the world with the message, “Buy Solitaire!” isn’t terribly effective. Nor is the message, “I’m Kelley Eskridge and I wrote a book.” Who cares? It’s more useful, and more interesting, to build two mutually supportive systems: first, a network of positive professional relationships, and second, a multi-layered connection with readers. Both of these activities are essentially about establishing an identity. Every professional interaction I have — with my agent, my publishing team, other writers, reviewers, media, etc. — contributes to my professional image. Am I easy to work with? Do I understand the business, or show that I’m able to learn what I don’t know? Am I involved without being disruptive? Do I stick up for what’s important to me? Do I know who I am as a writer, and where I want to go? Do I make it easy to know me? I don’t think writers always realize how important this is–in business, people work more effectively with people they know, and publishing is no different.
The same dynamic is true, I believe, for readers. I can’t count the number of times that I’ve read an interview or profile, or heard someone on the radio, and thought, “Hmm, that person is pretty interesting. I should find their book.” Because I have a sense of the person, I’m a little more willing to audition their work. So I think it’s vital for me to find as many ways as possible to interact and connect with readers. Readings are a wonderful opportunity, as are interviews. I also think writers should have active websites, talk to reading groups, meet booksellers, accept praise and criticism gracefully, and write thank you notes to people who help.
And that’s essentially what I do to promote my work: I write the best fiction I can, and then I make it as easy as possible for people to welcome it into their publishing house, their magazine, or their bookshelf.
I said earlier that impatience is not a writer’s friend, and that’s never more true than in this case. Building these kinds of relationships does not happen immediately, and it’s never finished. It’s a process, much like the writing itself.
Cindy: When you’re not writing, what is it you most enjoy doing?
Kelley: Eating, drinking, and talking with interesting people (preferably in combination). Music. Reading. Learning. Dancing. Watching Firefly, Buffy and The Sopranos. Catching all the moments of joy that I can.
Cindy: What is the most invaluable reference you own?
Kelley: My internet access account, my library card, and my willingness to listen and learn. With these, I can get any information I need.
Cindy: Do you listen to music or TV while you write, or do you need complete silence?
Kelley: Music helps me enormously. I will work in silence when I get on a roll and forget to play something, but in general I prefer to work with the headphones on and music I know well. Unfamiliar music would be very distracting for me. As for trying to combine TV and writing — oh, the horror.
Cindy: What aspect of your book do you feel is the most likely to actually happen?
Kelley: I wasn’t trying to predict, but to extrapolate, so most of the important aspects are already underway, even if only in fledgling form: the move toward consolidated government and the corresponding loss of cultural markers such as currency; the beginnings of coalition among disparate terrorist groups fueled by a common desire for cultural separatism; increasing realism in virtual reality experiences; growing emphasis on organizational dynamics and managerial skills in corporations.
Cindy: If someone were to describe you in one word, what would you like that word to be?
Kelley: If you’ve read this far, surely you can’t imagine I would pick only one word (grin). I’m not sure there’s a single word for how I’d like to be perceived, but the closest I can think of is big. I work hard to have big joy, big goals, big dreams. I try to live large. This doesn’t mean being the loudest or the flashiest or the most important person in the room — that’s not what I think of as big. To be big means to be as much of myself as I possibly can be, as often as I can. To be present and engaged in my life. To be as brave as I can in my life and my work. I am not always joyful, but I am always ready for joy, and I often find it. I wish there was a word for that.
Cindy: What would you like to accomplish as an author?
Kelley: To write stories that make me and the reader feel big feelings: hope, grief, love, joy, exultation. To do it with grace and authority and exuberance. To do it better every time.