Visiting with Richard Farrell
by Claire Guyton
What inspired “Accidental Pugilism”?
Bob and me, MFA residency in Slovenia.
I was walking through a World War I cemetery with Bob Vivian and we were having one of those terrific conversations that seem to magically happen in solemn places. I was telling him about my past, about the deep passion I once had for flying. The conversation looped around to war and baseball and what it means to be a male writer living in our times. We sat down at a café to order espresso, and I told Bob that I had never written about flying before. I’d tried, but had been woefully unsuccessful. I’d been avoiding re-entering that place, the way you might avoid dwelling on first loves or broken hearts. I’ll never forget what Bob said to me. “Oh, Rich, you have to write about it. Don’t worry about getting it wrong. It’s too important.” In a strange and meaningful way, he gave me permission to write this essay, and it’s profoundly gratifying that, as the new CNF editor at Hunger Mountain, it was Bob who solicited the piece and who has brought it to publication. An earlier draft of “Accidental Pugilism” appeared at Numero Cinq, Doug Glover’s wonderful blog/literary magazine, so the Vermont College of Fine Arts community is almost entirely responsible for its appearance.
Tell us about your writing process—either generally or specifically with regard to the birth and development of this essay.
Just after graduation from Annapolis.
I never know where a story or essay will end up. When I first began “Accidental Pugilism,” it was going to be a brief analysis of Thom Jones’ short story “The Pugilist at Rest.” I had no intention of writing about flying or my own experiences with epilepsy. The confessional aspect of this essay tumbled out of me as I wrote.
When I first started writing, I was a planner. I had specific intentions about where a piece was going, but they never turned out as intended. It took a while to learn to let go. I almost have to force myself inside a writing space in order to generate momentum; the more I write, the more I recognize my own tendency to get in the way. For me, letting go of what I’m trying to do often involves many frustrating drafts. And then something clicks; it’s never at the level of good sentences or pretty prose, but through a larger consciousness about the piece. Until that little switch turns on, I’m often just spinning my wheels. How the hell do you even explain something so utterly strange?
All writers have favorite words we have to guard against over-using. What are yours?
My kids and me on vacation in Spain.
I didn’t until this question! Actually, my wife copyedits most of my writing, and she’s diligent about pointing out the words that pop up over and over. So my answer is that each piece I’m writing seems to generate its own “word tics.” It’s fascinating to think how this happens, how a word (or a series of words) can embed itself in your brain and then keep popping up in a piece. Perhaps the more curious thing is how invisible these words or phrases are to me as I re-read and edit a piece. I almost never catch the words, but any other reader would notice them instantly. I think I miss repeated words when I edit my work partly because I’m almost always hearing the text ahead of my eyes, so that I’m not so much reading as I am listening. My brain seems to skip those repeated words to avoid disrupting the pleasant soundtrack going on in my self-absorbed head.
After my wife gets through reading a draft, any ego boost I’ve generated in writing said piece is quickly squelched by her red ink. I have an edit sheet in front of me of a story I’m working on. Apparently the words “silence” and “below deck” were in my head a lot. (And the word “fascinating” appeared three times in an earlier draft of this interview!)
What does your writing space look like?
My desk, where I almost never write....
Having two young kids at home makes the concept of a writing space seem romantic. I write wherever I can find a quiet spot. I recently read an essay by Kent Haruf where he lovingly talks about his writing space. “Hanging above my desk is the skull of a Hereford bull, complete with horns and dark gaping eye sockets. The skull came from Cherry County, Nebraska, which is beautiful big grassy sandhill country; and if you shake the skull, you can still produce a sprinkling of sand from its calcified insides.” My writing space is mobile; no bull skulls, no memory aids of sandhill country or anything else. Most days I write at my dining room table on my laptop. Right now, two baskets of folded clothes are staring at me, begging to be put away. Other times, I write at a coffee shop near the beach. I’m most productive when I drive over to the University of San Diego’s law school library. Perhaps it’s the energy I derive from other people studying nearby, or the fact that there’s no Internet connection I can access, but I’m most productive there. I’d like to have a dedicated space to write, but I haven’t found it yet. I’m fairly certain it would be overrun by matchbox cars and swimsuits if I did.
{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
Thanks so much for sharing! This was a wonderful interview.
Fun piece… I especially like the image of the desk Richard rarely writes from. That made me laugh. : )
My husband writes novels – sitting in the lazy-boy – watching whatever sporting event is in season. I can’t write a thank you note with that much distraction. Laundry baskets, Chargers, et.al. I’m impressed with writers and all their writing spaces – even if they don’t have “a space of their own” – or maybe especially if they don’t. Keep it up…