Interview With Corey Mesler

I don’t get out much and still haven’t made it over to Burke’s Books, Memphis’ oldest and best indie bookstore, but I was able to interview the owner recently. Here’s what published author and poet Corey Mesler had to say:

I remember the first time I spoke to you. I called Burke’s Books looking for something and you were so damn nice, I never forgot you. But I don’t recall how we finally became friends. Do you?

I don’t. I’m sure it was because you’re so outgoing and nice. And we must have met online, of course, since the web is my surrogate world for now.

What did you do for work before you bought Burke’s Books?

I have been working in the bookselling business for all of my 32 working years, Burke’s being the 3^rd stop on my See-How-Many-Bookstores-I-Can-Run-Into-the-Ground tour.

I’ve been to your website. Do you blog, as well?

No, because I have no opinions on anything.

Somehow, I doubt that.

Ok, I have this opinion: aluminum foil is the best thing man has ever come up with.

And this one: Hope Davis should be getting the same salary as Julia Roberts.

And this one more: Fitzgerald’s best book is really Tender is the Night and not The Great Gatsby.

Oh, and one more: To Kill a Mockingbird, Confederacy of Dunces and The Beach Boys and James Dean are over-rated. How’s that for controversial?

So many writers seem to come from the wrong side of the tracks. Do you?

I don’t even know where the tracks are, except for the tracks of my tears.

Great song. I love Motown. Which genre of music do you love?

Far and wide. But mostly 60s psych-pop. And, of course, Dylan and the Beatles, who did some fine 60s psych-pop themselves. And then, anytime, anywhere, Miles Davis.

Writers, and bloggers, in particular, tend to form their own clubs. Who’s in your club?

Joan of Arc, Tristan Tzara, Elias Canetti, Richard Brautigan, Humbert Humbert, Karl Kraus, Charlie Chaplin, the Laker Cheerleaders, Oedipus, Rod Serling, Iris Murdoch, Billy Pilgrim, Monty Python, Franz Kafka.

What do you love most about writing?

Oh, golly. That it’s solitary. That it fires my brain like nothing else. That it keeps me from watching Three’s Company reruns. That it stays with me all through the day even when I’m not writing.

Do write on schedule?

Yes, ma’am. It is the only area of my life I am disciplined about. I get up with the birds, sometimes even before the birds, and I have to go out to the trees and shout, “Hey, get outta your nests you slugabeds!” and write every morning, emphasis on the every.

When writing fiction, you don’t use dialogue tags. Explain.

I like the characters to be defined by voice. I like the whole shebang to be driven by nothing but voice. That is, of course, when I am writing my funny little dialogue thingums.

Define “Chapbook.”

Traditionally it is a small collection of prose or poetry, often staple-bound, working on one theme.

Who inspires you? What’s your muse like? What is his or her name?

My muse is an ex-alcoholic from Cincinnati named Lanny. As to who inspires me, the list is as long as the heaven’s roles but here are a few: Joyce, William Carlos Williams, Frank O’Hara, Dylan, Leonard Cohen, my brother, Walker Percy, Camus, Dick Van Dyke, Yeats, Vonnegut, Fellini, my children, Nabokov, The Marx Brothers.

I love the poetry you’ve shared with me. It’s inspired my own work. Share something with me now.

You’re very kind.

No. Just honest.

Phoenix

They’ve piled

fresh lumber

in the yard

of the burned-out

duplex.

Thank you. You read it here first, folks.

You seem like the kind of guy who has seen The Big Chill. You know that scene where Jeff Goldblum goes downstairs to hit on Chloe, and she comes to the door in her underwear, no clue what he’s up to, and when she says good night and closes the door, he turns and smiles? You know how you feel at that moment? That’s how I feel when I read this one you penned:

Watching Syrie Bathe

Only her golden hair

visible above

the edge of the tub.

And when she

descends like Ophelia

the water too becomes

ah, golden.

It slides like butterscotch over my brain. And in this one, I hear the blue wail of a saxophone on some dark and lonely street corner:

Blues for Wendy Ward

After 20 years I find a picture

of you inside a book of art.

Your smile is patient:

you were waiting for what life

would bring you after me.

I love this one because I often get my greatest inspiration in the shower:

Nothing Matters

Nothing matters

yet still

I rise

and step from the tub,

half dry off,

find my glasses

abandoned on the

chair over which

I hung my pants,

scrabble for

pen and paper,

and steady myself

on the towel rack,

to write this down.

And this one:

Writing (to) You

The letter I sent to you

died on the way.

A dead letter.

Later, I wrote another letter.

I didn’t put your

name on the envelope.

Now I sit here in the dark

waiting for someone

to come and explain you to me.

Outside I can hear the

bright new coinage of the children.

The bright new coinage of the children. No one but you would think of it that way. It’s brilliant. The thing I’ve found about writing is that sometimes you have to bare yourself, grit your teeth and write anyway, or there would be no real truth in what we write. You do that don’t you? Sometimes write things that are private because you hope it will strike a chord in the reader?

Yes, when I’m writing I am fearless. In all other areas of life I am chickenshit – hence the agoraphobia – but when I am at the keyboard I am almost conscienceless.

Almost? What line will you not cross?

Knowingly hurting someone, especially someone I know.

What do you think is the root of your agoraphobia? Is it a selfish desire to stay home and write? How long have you had the condition?

I wish it stemmed from a selfish desire to stay home. Staying home is all well and good until a seemingly unseen force says you HAVE to stay home. Then it is a jail sentence. According to my shrink I have been building my agoraphobia my whole life, partly from the things bullies told me about myself when small which I have internalized and now use against myself. I have become my bullies.

That’s too bad. You’re a great guy, but then, if you were able to share more of your physical self with the world, your emotional and mental self might suffer the consequences, and so might your readers. Do you think your condition is at all partly responsible for your talent, or would you have been gifted in spite of it?

I have that fear, that my so-called talent is linked to my insular world, my trapped circumstances, my popcorn machine head. But, when I queried my shrink about this question early on, his wise response was, “You want to write from your best self.” I guess I am still in search of my best self.

You’re writing another novel. How many are published now? Do you outline, or go with the flow?

Two published novels, two more finished. No, no outlines. The most recent novel I did the most pre-planning for, making extensive notes, keeping a long list of the characters and their traits so I didn’t mix them up, even keeping a map of Arkansas in front of me (it’s set in a small fictional Arkansas town). I guess, mostly, I go with the flow, maybe because I have been left out of “the flow” in real life.

Do you have other talents?

I used to amuse at parties with my rendition of “Hello Goodbye” as it might be sung by Bob Dylan. I am a passing good bookseller and a pretty good parent.

Your son Toby is a talented artist. Would you like to give him a plug here? Where can people reading this interview get a peek at his artwork? And why don’t you have him design the logo for your new Burke’s Books tee shirt logo?

Happily. Early on I recognized that Toby would surpass me, talent-wise, before he was a big dog. He is a true artist in that he works from his soul and his soul is a beautiful thing to witness. Toby, who starts at MCA in the fall, is doing mostly oil paintings now and so, I don’t know where to see his work. I haven’t seen enough of it myself. We have a t-shirt logo contest going on right now….I guess he’s not eligible.

I like the picture of you at your book signing. It reminds me of Johnny Depp in Benny & Joon.

I told my daughter you said I looked like Johnny Depp, if only for a moment. She said, man, is she deluded. Well, ok, she doesn’t even know the word deluded but she looked at me askance. I happily attach it here. And, oh, thank you.

LOL. No wonder she said that. Wrong picture. In the one I meant, you were sitting behind the table, and it was a combination of the hat you were wearing and the expression on your face. Oh, well.

Write something here and now that is bound to piss someone off.

I slept with women in college who would normally only sleep with jocks, women who were apparently charmed by my acid tongue.

Who were you in your previous life?

I was myself only stronger.

I don’t think you realize your own strength. Thanks for submitting to this. Is there anything you’d like to add before I tell people where to find your website and they go off and leave me here?

Buy my books! Buy my books at my bookstore! Thank you.

Here’s where, folks:

http://www.coreymesler.com/

http://www.burkesbooks.com/

Chasing Tail

At some point before I awaken each day, I must be moving my arms out from under the blanket because what wakes me is Sneezy making biscuits on my bare skin. She always manages to find that one little place that isn’t covered. If I draw the arm back under the covers, she switches to the other arm. Today, as I lay there enduring the torture, I wondered why we call our sheets, our blankets, our bedclothes -- covers? Is it because they cover the bed, or because they cover us? Maybe subconsciously we relate it with undercover, which covers a variety of secret activities like reading with a flashlight, or playing with snakey.

Ideas on the subject of covers were going off faster than paparazzi flashbulbs in my brain, one after another. The timing was right, the play on words so delectable I tasted them. This post would have you ruining keyboards. I got up, let the cats out, made coffee, let the cats in, the husband came home hungry, there was dinner to make, the dishes to clean up, cats to let out, cats to let in, and by the time I sat down to write – poof. It was gone. How freaking annoying.

This happens to me all the time, most often when I’m in the shower, or out in the garden. It happens in places where my brain is engaged in something that doesn’t require concentration, and somewhere, way underneath, there’s a little wiggle, and the wiggle worms its way to the surface and breaks through the concrete. The idea hatches full-blown, and all that’s required of me is to write it down before it wriggles its way back to the netherworld. But of course, there’s no pen handy. I will run in from the garden, my hands covered with soil and manure to jot down the gist of an idea, but I will not run through a chilly house, soaking wet with hair dripping. I have limits. What really ticks me off is when I’m writing gangbusters and my husband comes in to tell me about some dumb thing he’s watching on TV (especially when it’s a commercial), and breaks my concentration. Like now.

Do you remember the last good idea you had, where you were, what you were doing at the time, and what caused it to disappear?

I am particularly annoyed today because it was the best idea I‘ve had in a while. I’m in edit mode, not writing mode. I’m desperately trying to get the chapters in my novel flipped back and forth between past and present, while weeding and pruning with what I’ve learned from Miss Snark in the past few weeks. This has been going on long enough and I want to start querying again before the paranormal trend dies and becomes the ghost of Christmas Past.

I can sit and read someone else’s work, and what needs to be fixed is clear as brand new contacts to me. When it comes to my own, I might just as well be sunk in a mud bath with tea bags over my eyes. I think I am not getting the whole “this is set-up” business, especially when no one will be running through my story with a flaming coiffure.

I feel guilty when I don’t visit everyone else’s blog, or reply to comments, and I must take time to go vote on Miss Snark’s blog, since I participated in the Crapometer this time. I think I owe her at least that much. Before I know it, the clock will strike midnight, and I will have lost another day. I will edit until three, okay, five o’clock, ignoring the e-mails popping up in my box, and the ones already open and shouting for my attention before I crash and burn to sleep the morning away. Then I will somehow manage to allow my bare arms to sneak out from under the covers and rouse to find Sneezy making biscuits on them. I will tumble out of bed, start all over again, and not accomplish a damn thing.