Interview by Jana Hoops. Special to the Clarion-Ledger (January 27). Click here to read this interview on the Clarion-Ledger’s website

For those of us who continue to promise ourselves we’re finally going to make a clean sweep and part with material objects we’ve long held onto for their sentimental value–but from which we really draw little joy–Chris Cander starts 2019 with The Weight of a Piano (Knopf), a gentle push to examine when it’s time to let go.

In this fictional tale, two women–years and miles apart–unknowingly share such an attachment to the same antique German-made Blüthner piano. The novel “plays out” the story of how the women came to love the same lovingly handcrafted piano while in the midst of very different relationships and life circumstances–and why examining what your heart is really telling you is what matters most.

The author of the previous novels Whisper Hollow and 11 Stories, Cander has also dedicated her talents to encourage children to discover the power of reading and writing, through her work as a writer-in-residence for the Houston-based Writers in the Schools program, and her support of Little Free Libraries in her area. She also writes children’s books and screenplays.

A member of the American Society of Journalists and Authors, Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, the Author’s Guild, the Writers’ League of Texas, PEN, and MENSA, Candor lives with her husband and children in Houston, Texas.

The plot of The Weight of a Piano is filled with nuances that point to the eventual and unexpected fate of a piano, which has a long and interesting history. Did the idea for this story come from your own musical interests or talents?

Actually, the idea of centering the story on a piano didn’t come from a musical perspective at all. Not long after I lost both my grandmothers, I overheard a woman talking about finally letting go of a piano her father had given her when she was a child. She’d been taking lessons for a few months when he suddenly died, and afterward, it became a symbol of her grief–and of him. She didn’t play it, but also couldn’t get rid of it. It struck me how heavy certain possessions with provenance can be, and I knew then that I wanted to unpack that idea in a novel.

The title of the book is a clever take on the actual heaviness of a piano as measured in pounds, contrasted with the emotional weight, which the characters find themselves bearing. How did you come up with this theme?

Chris Cander

I can remember when I was in college, and everything I owned fit into my car. Now I look around my house and wonder, how did I end up with all this stuff? In addition to the typical possessions of an American family of four, I’ve inherited treasures from a large number of artists and collectors: the cedar chest my grandfather made, the chair that had belonged to my mother-in-law, artwork painted by friends, trinkets given to me by my children, and much, much more.

It can be both a blessing and a burden to own so much. It’s one thing to keep an out-of-style heirloom quilt or a broken watch that belonged to a grandparent, but it was fascinating to me to imagine what it would be like to carry an unwanted, 560-pound object through life. How does that kind of albatross affect someone? And what will she do to get out from underneath it?

There are many hints in the book of the meaning of the piano to its former and present owners. What does this story say for all of us about the meaning we place on objects?

You’ve heard the adage: “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” I’m fascinated by the different relationships we can have to things. From the minimalist movement to hoarding and everything in between, we–and here I’m speaking of a certain swath of contemporary American culture–seem particularly concerned with what and how much we own. Does it spark joy? has become an easy qualifier for what we decide to keep.

But some objects come into our lives freighted by so much more than joy. The stories that come with them–including the ones we tell ourselves–can trick us into thinking something ordinary is extraordinary, imbued with a sentimental value far greater than its actual worth. We all react to these physical things differently.

Tell me about your writing process. Do you create much of the plot first, and then develop the characters, or is it always different?

Typically, ideas are carried into my imagination on the shoulders of their protagonists, though as I mentioned, this novel was inspired by an event–that of a girl being given a piano by her father, who then dies shortly thereafter. But even the most compelling events don’t carry a story forward; it’s how the people who endure these events react to them, revealing their unique qualities and, hopefully, something about human nature in general.

Do you have another book in the works yet?

Happily, yes. I’m about halfway through a novel titled Zephyr, which explores the unseen forces that affect and connect us all.

Chris Cander will be at Lemuria on Wednesday, January 30, at 5:00 p.m. to sign copies of The Weight of a Piano. She will be in conversation with Knopf editor Gary Fisketjon at 5:30 p.m. The Weight of a Piano is Lemuria’s January 2019 selection for its First Editions Club for Fiction.

Interview by Jana Hoops. Special to the Clarion-Ledger Sunday print edition (November 11)

A decade after his successes with Peace Live a River and So Brave, Young, and Handsome, New York Times bestselling author Leif Enger offers his third novel, Virgil Wander with a twist.

The award-winning novelist’s portrayal of a good-natured man whose hopes and dreams are literally forgotten when his memory is wiped out after “his Pontiac flies off a bridge into the icy depths of Lake Superior” is at once contemplative and relatable.

Emerging alive but with language and memory deficits, main character Virgil Wander has no choice but to build a new life amid the trappings of his former one. Set in fictitious Greenstone, Minnesota, his town is struggling to revive itself after years of deterioration. Supporting characters rally to the cause as they deal with their own struggles.

The author’s hometown of Osakis, Minnesota (population 1,700), proved to be the perfect springboard for a young person with hopes of someday writing fiction, and Enger’s time came after working as a reporter and producer for Minnesota’s Public Radio.

Enger’s debut novel Peace Like a River won the Independent Publisher Book Award and was a Los Angeles Times and Time Magazine pick as one of their Best Books of the Year; and So Brave, Young, and Handsome was a national bestseller.

He and his family live in Minnesota.

The front flap of your book describes Virgil Wander as a “journey into the heart and heartache of an ‘often overlooked’ upper Midwest.” Explain what that means.

I’m not sure overlooked is the right word–“oversimplified” might be closer to the truth. Though often credited with timeless moral sensibilities, moderation, and a crackerjack work ethic, Midwesterners are as complicated and devious as anyone else.

That said, I suspect neither of the above–being overlooked or oversimplified–is much on our minds. Everyone wants respect, but there’s an enormous freedom in being off the radar. There’s still high value on self-sufficiency and almost everyone would rather give help than receive it. Of course, there’s plenty to complain about in places like Greenstone–high unemployment, clouds of mosquitoes, the tiresome March climate–but I’ve never heard anyone gripe about being ignored by Anderson Cooper.

I read about your hometown of Osakis and see that it has a population of 1,700 people. How did this influence your interest in writing?

Leif Enger

Growing up in Osakis was advantage in lots of ways. I had teachers throughout grade and high school who made me feel capable and encouraged my writing–not because I had some precocious gift, but because I liked words, especially funny ones, and because I wasn’t intimidated by essay questions. I think they just appreciated that I did the assignments, and they themselves didn’t think of writing as something exotic but as an everyday skill that could be useful in anyone’s life. They also knew that for me, it was never going to be math!

And there was a sense of relaxed-ness in that time and place about academics, sports, social events, and extra-curriculars, that allowed a kid–at least a lucky kid, with careful loving parents–to grow up slowly, without constant supervision. We went outside a lot because it was interesting out there. The news was not yet swamped with abductions and school shootings. We bumped into things but were mostly unhurt, and while we all hoped vaguely for eventual success, I don’t remember any outrageous expectations or pressure to produce. Of course, it’s also possible that with greater pressure I’d have produced more than three novels in 18 years. I guess we’ll never know.

Briefly, tell us about Virgil Wander. What inspired this hapless yet hopeful character and his story?

A certain kind of outsized American ambition is so celebrated, and its heroes so ubiquitous–the bold deal-making businessman with his strong handshake and empty sockets, the congressman who encountered Ayn Rand and never got over it, the 70-year-old with sculpted abs and restored sex drive–that it’s basically a cartoon. Whoever draws Tony Robbins is hilarious. I have no problem with this distortion until it’s held up as ideal, which it always is. Most of us are fairly pleased to get the kids through school, pay off the house, and act decently to our wives or husbands–maybe some days we even get the 10,000 steps that reassure us we’re doing all right.

So, writing Virgil was a matter of looking at my own easygoing ambitions and translating them into a context I’ve always sort of envied, namely running a slump-shouldered movie house in a stark little town on the edge of the inland sea. That’s a reality I can understand, and its modesty also allows for an element of magic that probably wouldn’t work otherwise. Magic only works when it’s badly needed, and I’ve never written a character who needed it more than Virgil.

The plot you weave is filled with colorful characters with whom Virgil connects as he struggles to literally “find himself” after his near-death experience of plunging into Lake Superior. Each of these characters supply subplots of hurts and hopes all their own. Together, they hope to reclaim and revive their “hard luck” town. In what ways does this narrative reflect stories of the “forgotten Midwest”?

No matter where you are, difficult times present a temptation toward nostalgia–to reclaim a remembered golden age by trying to re-establish formulas for success that worked once years ago. But shifts in demographics and technology doom the nostalgic impulse, and what’s happening in Greenstone is a result of that tension playing itself out over the decades. Jerry Fandeen, the former blasting engineer, deals with it by reaching back into the past, which can only end in despair; meanwhile his wife, Ann, has an entirely different response and spins out any number of creative and sometimes ludicrous ideas for an energized and dynamic future.

Most of the characters in the book are struggling to release their history and find a way forward. So are may of us in real life, and not just in the Midwest, anywhere livelihoods have been derailed by supply-chain disruptions or accidents of policy or just plain apathy. What seems hopeful to me is how hard people are willing to work for even small improvement in their lives, and their neighbors’ lives. At one point, Virgil remarks: “We all dream of finding, but what’s wrong with looking?” That’s a modest sort of optimism, which to me is the best kind, because it feels sustainable.

What has your writing success with your previous books (Peace Like a River and So Brave, Young, and Handsome), as well as your collaborations with your brother Lin Enger, taught you about writing–and about life?

Any regular writing discipline teaches you first to pay attention–to physical details, the colors and textures around you, the bird calls, squealing fan belts, burning muscles on an uphill walk, what E.B. White called “the smell of manure and the glory of everything.” That would be enough of a benefit, but then language itself has a way of tantalizing you along with new and ever more evocative words, rhythms, new ways of clarifying things said a thousand times before, as anything worth saying has been.

When Lin and I were writing crime novels together, he said the object of writing was clarity, “the opposite of showing off,” and that the goal of a novel was for the reader to forget he was reading.

I’m not wise enough to know how that relates to life itself, but I think it makes for a good book.

Tell me about the appearance of Minnesota native Bob Dylan in this story–are you a fan?

I came to Dylan pretty late, and I am not by any stretch a Dylanologist or obsessive fan, but I love how his songs seem to come up from the ground, how you know them by their mood, they have a kind of weather about them, a compact but powerful storm system. Listening to Dylan always makes me feel sad, but somehow prepared, ready to bear up under whatever is coming; I also love how he keeps writing good songs after so many years, an inherently hopeful thing to do. Because of these things, and because Greenstone would be practically in his backyard, I tried to conjure him in a way that would seem real and useful, and maybe a little bit funny.

I assume you love baseball, as a player is included in this book and was in previous works of yours. Is that a passion for you?

It’s the prettiest game, to me. Dad was a terrific pitcher, as was his brother Clarence, and their dad as well, Buck Enger. Clarence, in fact, was the model for Alec Sandstrom–according to Dad, Clarence was the one with the real velocity, but little control. In fact, Dad said, when Clarence pitched, it was not uncommon for opposing players to refuse to bat. They’d bench themselves first. Batting helmets didn’t exist in those days.

Do you have other writing projects out there on the horizon that you can tell us about?

I have a couple of novels in mind and am making notes for them, but would rather not say anything more–I’m a little superstitious about that.

Leif Enger will be at the Eudora Welty House on Thursday, November 15, at 5:00 to sign and read from Virgil Wander. Virgil Wander is Lemuria’s December 2018 selection for its First Editions Club for Fiction.

Interview by Jana Hoops. Special to the Clarion-Ledger Sunday print edition (September 30)

National Book Award finalist Elliot Ackerman shows his grit as both a tested warrior and intrepid wordsmith with his new release Waiting for Eden, a fiercely moving novel about how the wounds of war linger beyond life itself.

It was five tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan that earned the former U.S. Marine the Silver Star, Purple Heart, Bronze Star for Valor and the distinction of White House Fellow–and it would be his novel Dark at the Crossing that secured his finalist spot for the National Book Award in 2017. His also authored the acclaimed novel Green on Blue.

Other writings and articles by Ackerman have appeared in Esquire, The New Yorker, The Atlantic and The New York Times Magazine, as well as The Best American Short Stories and The Best American Travel Writing.
Ackerman divides his time between New York City and Washington, D.C.

Elliot Ackerman

How do you align your remarkable military career with your accomplishments as a writer?

People who don’t know me often say they’re surprised that I would have gone from the Marines into the arts. However, people who knew me growing up often say it surprised them that I went into the Marines instead of the arts. Those who aren’t familiar with the military often view it as a monolith. Nothing could be further from the truth. Some of the most talented writers, playwrights, and artists I know spent time in the service. That’s true today and it’s been true in the past.

The tone, the structure and the plot of Waiting for Eden are all striking in their uniqueness. The story itself is brutal, yet gentle–and obviously influenced by your own years in the military. How did you form the idea for this emotional and unexpected tale?

If you spend any time at war, you get acquainted with loss. That was a big part of my war experience. I learned about losing people that I loved when I was young; I was 24 when my first friend was killed in combat. Obviously, those who fight in a war aren’t the only ones who are acquainted with loss. A parent, a sibling, a friend– who among us isn’t touch by similar loss?

I wanted to tell a story about the wars, but also one that transcended the wars and dealt with issues that are universal, which is why so much of the book occurs at home. Grief was a theme that interested me. We often think of grief as a transitory state. We suffer a loss, then we grieve, and then through our grief we’re able to move on. But what if you can’t move on? At its core that’s what this novel is about.

Eden Malcom, the main character, is a victim of a tragic explosion during a deployment in Iraq. He is left with terrible injuries that leave him badly burned and clinging–for three long years–to life. His wife Mary spends those years by his side every day in a San Antonio burn center. His best friend, the book’s narrator, is actually dead but can see, hear, and understand Eden’s thoughts and feelings. This would probably be a good place to ask you to explain the title of the book.

The opening lines of the book are, “I want you to understand Mary and what she did. But I don’t know if you will. You’ve got to wonder if in the end you’d make the same choice, circumstances being similar, or even the same, God help you.”

When you meet Mary and the unnamed narrator at the beginning of the book, they have been waiting for three years for Eden to succumb to his wounds. They have no hope that he might recover; his injuries are too severe. Mary lives at the hospital, having sent her young daughter to live with her mother, and Eden’s best friend remains in a quasi-purgatory, hovering over the narrative as he tells us Eden’s story. So with Mary at the hospital and his best friend watching on the other side of life, these two have kept faith with Eden.

But what they are really doing is grieving, because grief is a type of faith; contained within it is the belief that eventually our spirits will heal. I’m not sure the healing always happens. When it doesn’t, we are left with something other than grief. We are left waiting. Hence the title of the novel.

Tell me about Eden’s phobia of–and ongoing battle with–cockroaches.

Like Eden, cockroaches are virtually indestructible. They’re one of the few species of animals that would survive a nuclear holocaust. They’re impervious to radiation and most diseases. Few creatures can withstand quite as much punishment as a cockroach. So Eden has this in common with them. But he also has a phobia of them, and this phobia predates his horrific injuries. It’s as though he knows what he is going to become, and it terrifies him, causing his phobia to act on a subconscious level. Here he is thinking of the cockroaches he imagines are lingering in the crevices of his hospital room, “He knew they’d crawl over him before he could even get a look and he did the only thing he could: he waited.”

In what ways did John Milton’s Paradise Lost influence this book–and the name of the main character?

The idea of original sin, which is present in Paradise Lost, certainly influenced this book. More than anything else, this is a book about a marriage and the sins that occur within a marriage and the way that they project out through our lives. The idea of an Eden, or paradise, goes hand-in-hand with the idea of original sin. Eden is the place before the sin, the place we are trying to get back to. This too is what they’re waiting for.

The devotion Mary shows for her husband is fierce and steadfast, and is one that would be difficult, if not impossible, for many spouses. What drives Mary’s strength and determined commitment to her suffering and slowly dying husband?

There’s a saying I’ve always like–it does come from my Marine days, and it was spoken about the Marines on Iwo Jima. You’ve probably heard it: “Uncommon valor was a common virtue.” You would be surprised what people are capable of when placed into extraordinary situations. Mary’s situation is most certainly extraordinary. The extent of her husband’s wounds, and the choice she is asked to make, none of this is everyday stuff. However, I don’t think that her devotion, which I would certainly characterize as fierce and steadfast, is quite as extraordinary as many of us might think. Mary rises to the occasion as so many of us are often called upon to do.

Through Waiting for Eden, what did you wish to tell readers about war?

I don’t consider Waiting for Eden to be a book about war; it is a book about grief and one that I hope will resonate for those of us who’ve ever struggled to let go of a person we’ve loved. What I prize about fiction is that it isn’t trying to tell us anything. When I wrote this book, I felt something as I put down this story on the page. If you, as the reader, feel any fraction of what I felt for these characters then the transfer of that emotion is the goal; it is what I hope you would take away from this book, as opposed to my telling you anything about a certain subject.

In the final pages of the book, Eden is pleading for the end of his life to finally come, and his wife makes a surprise decision that also affects his best friend, the narrator. Can you tell us (without spoiling the end) what they are all really waiting for?

I don’t want to spoil the end, so I’ll simply say that there is a common love that three of them share. Through that love they hope to be made whole, to return–at least in some small way–to their lives before the original sin.

Do you have your next book project already in the works yet?

My next book, Places and Names: On War, Revolution, and Returning will be out in May 2019. It is a piece of nonfiction which deals with my time in both Iraq and Afghanistan, expatriate life in Turkey, and my coverage of the Syrian Civil War. I am also finishing a novel set in Istanbul, where I used to live, and it is scheduled for release the year after that.

Elliot Ackerman will be at Lemuria on Monday, October 22, at 5:00 to sign and read from Waiting for Eden, which has been selected one of our November 2018 selections for Lemuria’s First Editions Club for Fiction.

Interview by Jana Hoops. Special to the Clarion-Ledger Sunday print edition (September 16)

Described as both a murder mystery and a social critique, Stephen Markley’s Ohio speaks with revelatory discernment about the direction a new, post 9/11 generation of Americans faces.

Set in the fictional small town of New Canaan, Ohio, Markley’s moving debut novel conveys the angst of a region in decline–thanks to the realities of an economic recession, the tragedy of opioids, and the calamities of war in Afghanistan and Iraq–as witnessed by four former high school classmates. When the friends, all in their 20s, gather in their hometown one fateful summer night in 2013, the evening ends in a shocking culmination that no one expected.

Each of Markley’s main characters brings along a mission for this evening, as they collectively struggle with private secrets and regrets–including alcoholism, drug abuse, lost ambitions, relationships gone astray, and personal doubts.

Through Ohio, Markley addresses forgotten pockets of the nation’s “rust belt” that inherited the disillusionment of racial hostility, environmental uneasiness, foreclosures, and political standoff.

Stephen Markley

A graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, Markley is a screenwriter, journalist, and the author of two previous books: Publish This Book: The Unbelievable True Story of How I Wrote, Sold, and Published This Very Book  and Tales of Iceland, a humorous “memoir and travelogue of an American experience in Iceland.” He lives in Los Angeles.

Ohio is a complicated and gripping tale. It’s an ambitious novel that took you five years to write. How did you do this?

Ha. Sometimes I’m not even sure. I think I always had this raucous, ambitious novel in mind, and I had the components  of something really interesting, but it was a long process of figuring out how those components worked together. I certainly owe a great debt of gratitude to my agent, Susan Golomb, and my editor, Cary Goldstein, as well as a number of other readers who gave me the feedback that helped me craft the final version.

You were a teenager yourself when the events of 9/11 shocked America. How did it affect you and your own friends personally?

That’s hard to say because it didn’t really in the moment. We lived far away from New York City and the Pentagon, and while what happened was certainly spectacular in terms of the images and the shock, the most important legacy of 9/11 for my generation was the widespread failure of our political institutions in the aftermath.

Decisions were made and policies were put into place that will be with all of us for the rest of our lives, and here I’m not just talking about two disastrous wars that have grown into a permanent global counter-insurgency operation, but the domestic consequences of surveillance, xenophobia, and a national security-industrial complex that bends policy to its whims and which as citizens have almost zero democratic control over.

Ohio, your first novel, came about after your studies at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. Tell me how your Iowa studies paid off in your efforts to become a novelist ,which you have described as your “only ambition.”

I arrived at Iowa after floundering for several years as an utterly unsuccessful freelance writer, so just the relief of  paycheck, health insurance, and the basic stability of housing was enough to give me this burst of creative energy. On top of that, the teachers I worked with and my peers were just so consistently brilliant, hilarious, interesting, and inspiring that even if I’d produced nothing in those years, I would still view them as some of the best of my life.

Have you been surprised by the acclaim the book has garned, especially since this is your first novel? It has even been described as “generation defining.”

I know this is annoying to say, but I’m trying to ignore all of that as best I can and just enjoy Simon & Schuster footing the bill to send me around the country on a book tour, which I’m using as an excuse to see almost everyone I’ve ever loved or cared about.

As for the generation thing, I tend to think my generation of writers will be defined by the huge range of diversity in voices and storytelling styles that comes from the rather recent institutional realization that human beings other than straight white guys also have fascinating stories to tell.

Your writing style is unique, and it reads like you are talking to exactly one person (the reader) face-to-face. Tell me about how the signature form has developed.

Oh, that’s as much a mystery to me as anyone. I think all writers are just amalgamations of every influence they’ve ever claimed and, even more so, all the ones they can’t remember. You have to keep in mind, even though this is my debut novel, I’ve been working at this writing thing since I was probably 5 years old. At age 34, I feel like it took a lifetime to get this thing out there.

Since the town of New Canaan is patterned at least loosely from  your own hometown, did you experience  the same thoughts and feelings as your characters? Was there the same sense of despair? Are things there better now?

That’s complicated because New Canaan is not really my hometown, which has its own stories and politics and oddities and troubles and brave, wonderful people.

But it was the sensation of growing up there that I wanted to get across. Tim O’Brien talked a lot about this in (his book) The Things They Carried–sometimes to get at the truth, you have to make up a story.

With this powerful debut novel under your belt, do you think you may take a more upbeat approach on your next book–or do you have another book planned yet?

I’m always working on two or three things at once, but I’m feeling a little precious about those projects right now. I’m probably not quite ready to say them out loud in case they vanish.