CURRENT ISSUE

From Short Story to Book: Sarah Kilian interviews Sara Power

What, for you, makes a short story a winner?

I am drawn to stories that present an urgent grappling with identity, experience, or social material. I think the short story form provides an opportunity to play with particular narrative devices and styles that may not be as sustainable in more expansive works. Nesting narratives, for example, and the set-up of interesting triangulations and parallels between story elements. I admire stories that are able to create an uncluttered sense of belonging, and this often happens when the language presents an unfamiliar environment or world in a way that feels intimate and relatable.

The treatment of time in story is another critical piece for me. I am attuned to the unique chronology of a short story—its time stamp; the way the writer occupies a moment or a period with sincerity and attention to detail. Finally, endings are the true signature of the short form. The best short stories don’t end, they stop. How does the ending land? Is it meaningful and unsettling? Does it link into the deeper rhythms that the story has constructed? Does it provide openness and access to complex truths?

Are there specific writers you read when you’re looking for inspiration or encouragement in your own writing?

Reading and listening to stories and books is an intrinsic part of my writing practice. The New Yorker’s Fiction Podcast has been a dear companion for years. I listen to stories by Grace Paley, Louise Erdrich, Edwidge Dandicat, Lorrie Moore, Yiyun Li and other masters of the form. The stories are read and discussed, and they never cease to enlighten. Deborah Levy’s prose has been crucial to my writing, and I keep the work of Garth Greenwell close. My very first writing workshop was facilitated by Greenwell, and his generosity of intellect and spirit created a seismic shift in my approach to a writing life. Lisa Moore’s work is often on my desk or bedside table because I am ever-inspired by the chiselled energy she brings to the page. Souvankham Thammavongsa’s writing distills and sustains, and every time I visit her work, my mind changes.

How do you begin working on a story? Is there something that propels you to actually sit down and start writing?

Since I began to commit my life to writing stories, I seem to notice them everywhere. They present themselves. Sometimes a piece of imagery is full of potential, like a tree suspended from a crane during the clean-up of a storm. Sometimes it’s an overheard conversation, or a memory that provokes a sense of wonder and curiosity. I have carved out three mornings a week to write, and I try to be ruthless about these periods. I also have a few writing partners who co-write with me. We sit together and write—set a timer, and take breaks. This helps keep my butt in the seat, which is the most important part.

You have a background in the military, which has clearly had a considerable influence on your work. When did you start writing about these experiences, and when did you realize you wanted to explore this world through fiction?

Yes, I served in the Canadian Forces in my other life, and I have enjoyed exploring the lives of girls and women who are connected to the military. My first publication in a literary magazine was my story, “Art of Camouflage,” which was published by The New Quarterly in 2017. I remember speaking with another author about this story, and he mentioned that it was a submerged world, this interior side of military life. This idea still rings true to me, and I remain interested in the ways in which military people and their families navigate transience and isolation. My military background has also presented significant challenges. I chose to leave the military for a number of reasons including my realization that I’m a pacifist to my core. I have distanced myself from military life, and although it is an environment I know intimately, and one that I find intriguing to explore in fiction, I am weary of being painted as a military writer. I don’t consider myself to be a military writer, but instead, as you say in your question, a writer who is influenced by the military. In my current writing project, the military is present, but only as a sort of background element. My main zone of interest is in the tangled interior lives of my characters. Oh the tangles.

Your debut collection of short stories came out last May—congratulations! How has publishing a book changed your life?

Thank you. I have certainly evolved as a writer since the publication of Art of Camouflage. Working with the editors at Freehand Books was a positive experience, and the quality of care—sentence-level care, of comma trauma, of rewriting and restructuring, and all the back and forth, was formative, to say the least. Also, I knew very little about publicity a year ago, and with small-press publishing, the author is very much involved in this part of the process. I enjoyed bringing the book into the world, and was delighted to be invited to a number of my favourite writing festivals. I arranged bookstore, library, and university readings, and collaborated with other authors whose books share a connection with my own. I’m grateful for the experiences I had touring the book over the last year, especially when I was able to collaborate with other artists.

I’ve thought a lot about the way an author presents their book. Which passages do you share? Which themes consistently emerge? Which elements of the book become the highlights of conversations with new readers? The book tour version of a book, especially a collection of short fiction, can start to be its own entity. I began to think about ways to present the book that might better capture its essence without giving too much away. It has been an enormous learning curve.

In another interview you mentioned that you were working on your debut novel, which is based on your short story “The Circular Motion of a Professional Spit-Shiner" (winner of The Malahat Review’s 2022 Open Season Fiction Award). What has it been like for you to expand this story into a novel?

I really loved writing that story, and always had the sense that it needed more space. Even the version that made it into my collection was expanded from the original story that appeared in The Malahat Review. It has been an entirely new writing process for me to work outside the constraints of the short story. Most pieces of a story are connected, and it is usually a way for me to know that a story is ready—when I’m unable to pull anything out without the entire thing falling flat. In my favourite novels, many of the pieces are not intrinsically connected, but instead, are co-existing. In my experience, there is a wretched sort of leisure involved in writing a novel. I feel more freedom to expand and follow tangents, to be relentless in the exploration of the characters. In short stories, I’m usually aware of an underlying pattern, whereas in the novel, there is less pattern, and more pathway. It’s an experience and I’m still in the thick of it. I’ll keep you posted.

 

 

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