Julie Paul is from the edge of the Canadian Shield, in eastern Ontario, and generally feels a little unsettled when away from all those lakes and rocks, but she’s lived in Victoria, on and off, for twenty years. She’s had the pleasure of being on our fiction board for about a year and a half now. Her first book, The Jealousy Bone (Emdash Publishing), came out in 2008, and she’s just completed her first novel. She’s at work on more stories and gathering notes for a second novel. When not writing, she instructs it, and also works in—and teaches—massage therapy.
Describe your ideal work of short fiction.
My ideal story has some element of surprise in it. I want to be shaken up, even a little, and taken on a journey. Something needs to happen, in a way I didn’t expect. It doesn’t have to be murder and mayhem; really, I want to be entertained and made to think about something in a new way. I’ve been writing some near-speculative fiction myself lately, and I love seeing things turned slightly askew. Ultimately, what I most want is to forget that I’m reading, and just settle into the narrative as if I’m experiencing it, live, real-time. No footnotes.
What is your favourite (for the moment or all-time) short story?
Can I pick two? Even narrowing it down to two is a challenge… One is Alice Munro’s story, “The Beggar Maid,” and the other is “Sea Urchin” by Lisa Moore. Alice’s story takes us through many years, as she so often does, and the reader is left really feeling like she knows Rose and her life, as if she is a friend. In Lisa’s story we get raw, gritty details, in a very different style from Alice’s: she provokes emotion in her readers with her striking imagery and seemingly random events that all add up to a complete experience.
From the time you started on our fiction board, what has been your favourite pick?
There’s a story in the Winter 2011 issue (#177) by Kevin Hardcastle, called “To Have to Wait.” This story has layers of tension, both in the situations it presents and the relationships it explores. It is told in a restrained, matter-of-fact style: every line feels like the truth, and every line builds the story. I had the pleasure of working a little bit with Kevin directly on some final edits, and it is a real joy to see the story in print.
Finally, what are you not seeing in submissions to The Malahat Review that you would like to see?
I’m reading a lot of submissions that could use some work on their endings. Sometimes I’ve been looking for the missing page and there isn’t one, and while this is sometimes said of short fiction, by its detractors, to be its problem—you know, people saying they want to keep reading because they’ve invested in the characters, etc.—it’s not length I’m looking for. It’s some kind of insight, something that makes the story worth reading, the reason I’ve been taken on this literary trip (see first question). Other stories try to sum up their parts, by way of the proverbial “wrapped up with a bow” kind of ending, leaving nothing to nuance or subtlety.
Having said all this, I know first-hand that writing a decent ending can be a huge challenge. The best stories, to me, don’t end with a moral or an obvious completion but a reflection, or a suggestion that things are about to veer off in a new direction. Bonnie Goldberg, in Room to Write, says, “Endings are the hardest part to write. This is because they are false. Nothing truly ends; it transforms.” Raymond Carver is a master at endings, in my opinion. Reading suggestions: Carver’s story, “Feathers.” Lorrie Moore’s “People Like That Are The Only People Here.” Sarah Selecky’s “Watching Atlas.” In fact, all of these writers are my favourites. Check out their books!
If you’re going to write—and submit—stories, read stories. They are truly an amazing genre. I look forward to reading your submissions to The Malahat Review.
