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I did this interview with Mary Gaitskill five years ago. At the time, Mary was doing a lot of magazine articles and she was teaching creative writing at various schools. In 1995, we were friends when she was in between books. We used to speak over the phone and Mary referred to me a few times in her stories or an essay. We had an argument about something and then we didn't speak for a while.

A friend of mine encouraged me take all the letters Mary and I wrote to each other during that time and make a zine. I typed up a few letters before becoming bored with the idea. Somehow I emailed a letter or two of Mary's to someone on the internet to get a reaction, and then, it seemed that the letters had gotten around to over a hundred people without my knowledge. I had contacted Kevin Killian about this, and he had received these letters blind from some unnamed colleague of mine whose computer I had left a copy of these letters. At the end of this interview I have included one of my letters that I still have in my possession.

A year later, I saw Mary read in New York City, and she accused me of posting the letters on the Internet. It wasn't entirely true because I had only typed up a few of the nine or ten letters that I do have. People have contacted me worldwide; who were writing papers on Mary Gaitskill's work. My interview has been a valuable source for many of these scholars who are looking for a more direct source about how Mary thinks about her own work and the world of fiction. Mary has come out with another collection of stories since this interview. She has also been working on another novel (possibly called Veronica) and a work of non-fiction which will eventually elaborate her views. Mary has also moved to New York, although upstate somewhere, since this interview.


Two Girls, Fat and Thin came out a while ago. Have you been working on a novel or short stories in the past couple of years?

MG: I did a draft of a novel that is real short. I don't know how long it will take me to finish it. I've been working on stories. It takes a long time to finish a story. Sometimes it takes years, which is ridiculous. It used to be like I'd write something in a month, and then I would put it aside for a few months, then go back to it and finish it up in a month or two. Maybe sometimes I would go over it again. Now, I'll put it aside for a year and come back to it. So it ends up taking four years. The new novel is tentatively titled Veronica. It's about two women and their friendship. One of them becomes sick with AIDS. It's not just about that but that's a central motif.

What is your opinion of creative writing workshops? Can writing be taught?

MG: It was OK. I don't think that I'm really a teacher by inclination. It was hard for me to get over the idea that the teacher is supposed to be dispensing wisdom. That's not how it is. That's just an idea that I had in my head. But I enjoyed SF State because there was a lot of exchange. Some of the students had read my books, but most of them hadn't. I'm kind of indifferent to creative writing schools. Some writers will harangue how horrible they are, and then they go teach at them. I didn't learn writing that way because when I was in school they didn't have programs like that.

I think that Iowa just started when I was getting out of school. So I wasn't ever presented with that as an option. I didn't like creative writing classes all that much. It was a way of getting credit for something I would have done anyway. Why I'm not against them is because I do notice that it really energizes some people. It's a way to be around other people who will discuss things. If you're a good writer, you're going to write whether you're in a writing program or not. I think that it would be better if you could have that arrangement in a non-scholastic situation. If you could find a congenial group of people.

Do you show your work in its preliminary stages to other writers or friends?

MG: It's not something that I do very often. I'm more likely to do it if I'm working with a form that I'm not used to. I just wrote an essay recently, and I showed it to people I know who write essays. I show fiction less frequently, but I do sometimes. The essay was about all this talk on "victimism." How everyone wants to be a victim. And the date rape thing.

What is your view on victimism?

MG: I think a lot of people, especially middle class people, were kind of brought up not to think for themselves. They were told what to think. So when they are put in a situation where they are required to think for themselves, they're in trouble. So they feel victimized without knowing why. They might respond by becoming very passive just going with whatever the other person wants or by becoming aggressive and thinking they have the right to take over the situation, regardless of what the other person wants. Which is a recipe for date rape. It's weird how people are saying, "How could this be happening?" It's always been present in the culture. It's just that before there was an illusion that everybody was doing the same thing, living the same way. Since that illusion has been lost, many people don't know what to do.

Could you explain what you call "the fetishization of romance?" That was a concept that you wrote about in an essay for MS. Magazine.

MG: I don't think that I remember the essay well enough to give you a clear idea of what I meant at the time. But what I think I meant that when people get obsessed by something -- women are encouraged culturally to do this more than men -- they have an idea about someone or something that has nothing to do with the alleged object. People often describe it as romance, but that sounds nicer than it actually is. Romance can be rather hideous. I mean you can romanticize something to a point where it's a grotesque distortion. It can be so distorted that it's kind of gross, but on the other hand it can have some pretty aspects for the person who is doing the romanticizing. There's usually an underpinning that's nasty. At the expense of what are you elevating them? When you idealize something, you strip out all the good parts and magnify them, but the other stuff doesn't go away. You're just blocking it out and at some point it'll bite you on the ass.

Sadomasochism is mentioned in your stories and about your stories. Is that just a buzzword or is that a judgment of the reality of most relationships? Is every relationship between victim and abuser?

MG: It's certainly a buzzword, but it also refers to something real. It's also a term I think has many different meanings for people. In one way I haven't liked it that people have talked about my books like that because to me that's not what they're all about. On the other hand, I've repeatedly used S/M as a motif, so I don't blame people for reacting that way. In "Romantic Weekend," the second story from Bad Behavior, part of the problem, when this girl says, "I'm a masochist," is that she doesn't mean what he thinks she means. It could be anything from very theatrical playing to heavy, violent physical stuff. A lot of my characters are actually too incompetent to be properly called S/M practitioners.

In Two Girls, the character Justine Shade likes sadomasochism. She wants it, up to a point.

MG: That's a more negative version of sadomasochism as opposed to Bad Behavior which was more playful. In that book, in her case, I was describing a more negative aspect of S/M sex where it's unconscious. She conscious of it in a way, but in another way she's not. It's involved with a lot of feelings that she hasn't fully dealt with or allowed herself to experience even. You asked me earlier if S/M is a part of all relationships. I think it's always there in the spectrum whether people choose to act on it or not.

Justine is a special case in some ways because as a child, she was the torturer. I saw her switching roles. Was she reliving what had happened to her? Being tortured in the same way she tortured others.

MG: If humiliation and betrayal and emotional pain are central themes in your life, you can respond to that fact in many different ways. I didn't see Justine as consciously trying to redress the situation of childhood. In her case, and I think this is true of a lot of people, the victim role which a masochist chooses to play may look really passive, but in some sense it's a very aggressive stance. When I say aggressive, I mean in an internal level, because she's putting herself in a passive position; dangerously so in the case of Bryan, the character opposite.

How is Justine's position different from a standard S/M situation like the one that is elaborated in The Story of O? O gives herself totally to this man, becomes a slave, submits to him, and through that process feels freer than before.

MG: In Justine's case, it's not like that. It's more like a ferocity, but it's convoluted. It's a kind of inward aggression. It seems like self-contempt, but it's really an inverted contempt for everything. That's what I was trying to describe in her. I would say it had to do with her childhood, not because she was sexually abused, but because the world that she was presented with was so inadequate in terms of giving her a full-spirited sense of herself. That inadequacy can make you implode with a lot of disgust. It can become the gestalt of who you are. So the masochism is like "I'm going to make myself into a debased object because that is what I think of you. This is what I think of your love. I don't want your love. Your love is shit. Your love is nothing." Justine's attitude toward Bryan is very contemptuous. I've been puzzled when some people have described my women characters as these passive victims. On the surface I see what they mean, but ultimately I don't see Justine as being passive. She's just too angry, and she tells Bryan what to do at almost every point.

The name Justine Shade suggests both Sade and Nabokov: what is your interest in these writers? Who are you favorite writers?

MG: I may be totally embarrassed about all those wacky character names at some point. Well, I like Nabokov a lot. I don't think much of Sade as a writer, although I enjoyed beating off to him as a child. His books can be good beat-off materials. I haven't read him for a long time. Some other writers that I like are Marguerite Yourcenar, Deborah Eisenberg, Flannery O'Conner, Jean Genet, and Maxine Hong Kingston.

Realism is a mode of writing based on 19th century models. Post-Joycean experimentation has been an interesting activity over the past 25 years. What is your impression of the term "post-modernism?" Your writing seems to be free of theoretical implications.

MG: I'm not interested in that discussion. I don't usually look at things in terms of whether they're experimental or not. It's more like, does the form suit what they're going after. I see form as being a by-product. I say that even though style and form is very important to me. What I mean is that the style will be the inevitable result of what the writer is pursuing and how she's pursuing it. Some people use non-realistic forms very well, but I don't have an allegiance one way or another. And as far as theory goes: I'm not that conversant in it. I'm not a very theoretical person.

I ask those questions because your two books were written in the 1980s in the midst of what in the art world we generally call "post-modernism." I was suggesting that it was a theoretical period. You have any interest in that?

MG: It's funny, in writing I really don't. I realize I don't have anything against it in principle because I've seen it done in film, in music, and in artwork where I've liked it. So it's not like I have a statement against it, but I've never been tempted to do it. I suppose that you can argue that I've done it by the suggestion of the name Justine, because it evokes things--other people's work--even though I don't literally use it. I'm not interested in doing it myself.

Can you talk about your writing process generally? How has your writing process changed since moving here? How do you begin to write anything?

MG: I don't get ideas fully formed. I usually start with just an image, or a conversation that haunts me, or an experience I had that's really striking to me. I work with superficial detail first. If you notice, there is a lot of detail in my work, and physical detail. It's because that's how I get into the story. If I try to think in terms of who is this character, or things thematically, or things psychologically, I get lost. I just start with some small thing and dig into it that way. I write longhand first. I have to do it that way. Then, I put it on the word processor.

Your work has been described as "queer literature." I was wondering what you thought about that label? Two Girls has lesbian overtones, Justine and Dorothy sleep together at the end. Are they excluding the men in their lives, and feeling free being with each other?

MG: I wouldn't say that, but for those particular women, freedom for a while might be good. I wouldn't see those two as a couple. The reason I see it having gay overtones is that I see Dorothy as being gay. I don't say that in the book. Most of her feelings toward Justine have erotic undertones. I don't know if they would act it out together, but at some point Dorothy might.

What about their interest in S/M and sexual marginality?

MG: I may be alone, but it's always been my feeling that people who are into S/M tend to be bisexual because their sexuality is not oriented around the genitals. It's more oriented around fantasy than people not into S/M. So there's more inclination to go either way.

Do you think that a purpose of writing is to communicate something and to overcome alienation?

MG: That's something that I feel complicated about too, because it is sort of a bond with the reader. When I had my first book published, I was really touched by the way people responded to it. I'm sure some people hated it. But just the fact that some people were emotionally affected by it, affected me. It was a really intense feeling. However it's also true that they saw the book in totally different ways than I meant it. Not in a bad way. For example, some people saw the story "Secretary" as a social statement about the evil of jobs and the horror of sexual harassment. Other people thought it as a story about a young girl being liberated from her tightness by a beneficent old guy. Those are two opposite extremes. Definitely it is partly communication because you're wanting people to read it, but it's also something that just happens internally for you. I didn't think that some of the stories in Bad Behavior were going too get published, but it was still important for me to write them.

Are public readings something that you look forward to or like to avoid? Like that one at SF State a while back? Is writing for you a way to be direct by indirectness?

MG: Actually I like giving readings. Why did you think that I didn't like it? Because I seemed uncomfortable? I'm shy, so I was particularly nervous at that reading partly because I thought someone I knew would be there. Someone that I had a weird situation. Plus I find that story difficult to read because it has a bunch of different emotional tones. It's hard to get it right. I am shy, so in a way, it's hard to read. But when I get into it, I really like it. Shy people are always hams secretly. It's a way of totally being in my world, and yet coming out in the world and talking to people. It's my world because it's my story. But at the same time other people are sitting there listening, and I can often feel the audience responding, or at least I think I can. Although it's difficult if I feel the audience not responding.

You wrote in both of your books: "Somebody opened me up in a way that I had no control over." What is it about losing control in a relationship that is so attractive for your characters?

MG: There can be something innately erotic about it because there's a sense of limitlessness to losing control especially if you're a person with a lot of limits. And if you're used to being like that, the idea of having the limits just totally ripped off, anything can happen. It can be arousing, not just sexually, but in every way. It can be frightening to some, but fear can be exciting as well.


I later wrote a letter to Mary Gaitskill after this interview originally came out:

Thanks for the letter with amazing insight and your purple observations. That saucy bit that you read is the first page of a rather long story I wrote three years ago called amazingly enough "Audrey Hepburn." She was still alive while I wrote it. You must understand. Audrey is often an absent figure throughout. It was a satirical piece where I used stuff from fashion, films, misguided notions about sexuality, and Catholic guilt. The reference to Penthouse was a joke, more like a laugh at those snobby research papers. What you say is mostly true. Audrey sort of represented that clean Apolloian image that was out of sync with a rough, impure world, corrupted and corruptible.

I hope that I haven't portrayed myself as a sex maniac. Hopefully, this new story I'm sending you is more on the right track: "I hate every cop in this town." Hatred, you agree is a more sublime subject than sex? About your Mr. Pussy and the alleged two and half-hours of going down on you or who else, I have a few comments. It sounds like he's just warming up to me, but then, of course, he paying for it, so he's trying to get his money's worth, right? Then, another question comes to mind: while he was laboring in the trenches, so to speak, what were you doing? I mean, did you get to read or do your nails? Otherwise, I don't want to brag, have I ever? But I could say with all seriousness that two hours, let's give the beginner a break and say three hours, of labial lollipop demonstration, is a very short time, especially when you're paying for it. We are all mortal. And if no payment is involved, imagine the amoral timelessness and intimation of the immortal. Also, I might add, you spoke nothing of the technique. Was he subtle? Or was it like a dog? Or a cop with a mustache? Finally, I say, three hours is the amount of time it takes to fly in an airplane from San Francisco to Chicago. That is no time at all! I watched many movies, with no sex in them at all, that were longer. Write back to me when you hear about The 120 Hours of Alexander. 120 hours is how long it would take for a male orgasm to travel to the moon at the speed it travels through the love duct to open air, if it could keep on going. Only if.

So here's the next chapter in my new opus SUPERFLIES. I hope that you like it. I'll try to focus on spanking big butts in the next one. So you're going to have to wait. Also, here is the tape I was talking about. Ultravox! One side was produced by Brian Eno, your hero. The guy you named a character after in your novel. Or was it Bryan Ferry? Anyway, this music looms large in SUPERFLIES, along with the first two albums of Gary Numan. All this music I speak of was done in the years 1976-78, when music was more pure and more like Audrey Hepburn.

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