Just Written Volume 32: Miranda Popkey
Hey Friends -
Today on Just Written, Miranda Popkey joins us. Miranda is a writer, editor and translator (from Italian) who published her first novel, Topics of Conversation, in 2020. A few months ago, her book was an excellent companion on a trip that turned into a 13 hour flight journey from Memphis to NYC (delays!). She also writes non-fiction, a sampling of which you can find here.
ToC traces a woman’s story told through a series of conversations over two decades. It’s a quick read, in the best way, and had my mind racing over and through the many ideas/themes explored. I encourage you to pick up a copy.
- Joseph
What are the tools of the trade you can’t live without and why?
I’ll often pause a television show or movie to jot down a thought in my Notes app (the Notes app: not just for celebrity apologies!). But my writing practice is erratic enough that I can’t depend on a particular tool as a spur — or, conversely, that I can afford to let any moment of potential inspiration pass me by, no matter how inconveniently timed, for lack of a particular writing implement. I do need space — I tend to pace when I’m writing, especially when I get stuck working out the shape of a scene or the cadence of a line. And something to drink: coffee; seltzer; wine; sometimes all three. I like a snack, too, but I’m a nervous eater and so have to be careful — whatever I put in a bowl next to the computer will be gone in under twenty minutes; I fill that bowl with Sour Patch Kids at my own peril.
What does your writing routine look like?
As I mentioned, my writing practice is erratic — and by erratic I mean at times (like now!) absolutely non-existent. When I am working on something, I tend to write in a series of long, furious, painful bursts, often at odd hours. I’ll putter all day — cleaning, responding to emails, reading articles online, scrolling through twitter, cooking — and when finally there’s absolutely nothing else I can possibly justify doing, I’m able to force myself to sit down and write. When I was in grad school, my husband used to joke that my thesis must have been written by elves in the middle of the night, like in that Brothers Grimm tale about the old shoemaker. He’d go to bed at ten or eleven and I’d be stirring a stew or waiting for dough to rise, half-watching Frasier on Netflix. When he woke up in the morning, I’d have another two or three thousand words. And he was right that it got done in the middle of the night — just by me, rather than elves. I wrote the majority of Topics of Conversation between 8pm and 3am; then I’d watch a movie — something at once densely plotted and profoundly silly like Tango & Cash or Johnny Mnemonic — to unwind.
How/where do you find your stories originate?
It’s a line first — a voice, really; then an image will attach itself to the line. Often I need to sit with the voice for a while — days, weeks, even months — as it gathers force. Unconsciously, I’ll be gathering details and preferences and mannerisms I’ll eventually need to make that voice live on the page. (Or this is what I’ve decided to tell myself I’m doing. Most of the time what this looks like is going about my daily life, not writing, while a Word document, empty but for a sentence or two, sits on my desktop.) Finally, when I feel almost frantic to expel what I’ve been silently accumulating, I’ll test the voice out on the page.
Tell us about your reading life/habits.
I’m a fairly omnivorous reader, which is to say I spend a lot of time online. Reading nonfiction — reading to learn — has felt especially important the older I get (the older I get the more I realize I don’t know) and I find a great deal of my reading is longform reportage of one kind or another. (I suppose I’m starting to understand how your classic dad ends up reading books about World War II and literally nothing else.) More recently, though, I’ve been trying to coax my brain back into a place where it can enjoy the rhythms of fiction. Just now I’m reading Iris Murdoch, an old favorite, and an author who balances philosophical inquiry and psychological depth with delightful and often ridiculous plots — a way to ease back in.
When I’m writing fiction — or, I should say, the one time in my life during which I was consistently writing fiction — it became almost impossible to read fiction. During the months when I was working on the novel most intensely, I read Sylvia Plath’s journals. I’m very susceptible, as a writer, permeable; and the voice I’d developed felt fragile enough that I was worried another author’s voice might drown it out.
You received an MFA from Washington University in St. Louis. What encouragement and caveats would you give to someone thinking about getting an MFA?
For me the MFA was essential because I needed permission; permission and deadlines. I needed space during which I was not only allowed but required to produce fiction; my fear of failure as a writer was otherwise too great — it needed to be countered with the fear of academic failure (even greater). Also I thought, Okay, here’s my chance to write a book. I’m literally getting paid to write; if I can’t write a book under these conditions, maybe I can’t write a book — maybe I don’t really want to.
My main piece of advice to those considering an MFA is: don’t go into debt. An MFA isn’t like a JD or an MD; it’s not automatically going to increase your earning power. It’s an opportunity to write and to be in community with other writers, to make connections; and yes, the degree does offer some modicum of cred within the literary world. But financially, at least in the short term, there isn’t a huge benefit.
The good news is, there are a lot of fully funded programs — WashU being one. Not only was my tuition covered all four semesters, but I was also earning a stipend. The first year I didn’t have to teach, and during the second I was responsible for one class, an intro to fiction workshop, each semester. It wasn’t a lot of money — if I’d had a family to support, for example, I’d almost certainly have had to take a second job — but given that I was only responsible for myself (my husband was also working) and, eventually, a dog, and given the low cost of living in St. Louis, it was enough.
Your first book, Topics of Conversation, came out in January 2020. Take us through the process of selling/publishing your first book?
I lived in New York for almost six years before I got my MFA, and for most of that time I was working in the publishing world — magazines and book publishing. That gave me a real advantage when it came time to think about my own novel; I knew agents and editors and, just as important, I knew how the system worked. There are a lot of unwritten rules in the publishing industry; the way you approach an agent, for example — that alone might determine whether or not you get a serious second look, whether your angle of approach unconsciously communicates seriousness or delusion. And this isn’t the sort of thing that gets taught — at least not usually, or universally — in MFA programs.
What turned out to be hardest for me — and I wouldn’t necessarily have anticipated this — was knowing when to push back. My instinct was to be accommodating; after all, my book was getting published! What could I possibly have to complain about! And in general my experience was very positive. That said: there was one medium-large thing my editor and I initially disagreed on; in that moment, having an agent was a godsend because I could send her in to fight that battle for me. (I hate conflict.) Even asking my agent to step in — that was big for me. Because in most cases it makes sense to trust your agent or your editor when it comes to the publishing process — after all, they know more than you do. But sometimes you have a feeling in your gut and that’s when it helps to remember that one, your agent works for you, and two, your name is, in the end, the one on the cover.
What gives you hope about the publishing industry? What fills you with despair?
The unwritten rules I mentioned above fill me with despair, as does the publishing industry’s lack of imagination. Whatever worked most recently, that’s what they’re chasing — even though, given how long it takes a book to move through the production process, whatever “just” worked is at least nine months to a year out of date. I am hopeful about the conversations that seem — finally — to be happening, about pay scales and how overwhelmingly white the industry is to name just two important issues. Publishing will never meaningfully “diversify” so long as an overwhelming majority of its staffers are white women — and white women of means, I have to assume, given how low pay for junior level employees continues to be. When publishing houses start paying a living wage — a real living wage, one that takes into consideration not only the fact that employees have to live in New York City but also that they may have family members to support or families of their own, may have student debt or credit card debt — that, I think, will mark the beginning of real change. The recent and successful unionization drive at The New Yorker was heartening for precisely this reason. I hope unions are able to infiltrate the big publishing houses soon.
What we’re reading:
Cort: A couple years ago, Joseph recommended Lauren Groff’s Fates and Furies for a vacation read, and I loved it. Her newest novel, Matrix, is about nuns at an abbey in England. I’m only a few dozen pages in but already loving it.
Joseph: I enjoyed Emma Cline’s latest story in the New Yorker, The Iceman - it tells the story of a resort hotel employee and feels in conversation with The White Lotus (HBO), which I recently watched and enjoyed.
Thanks for reading - see y’all next week.