On developing creative style that outlasts cultural trends

Did you always want to start a magazine?

Yes. I mean, this isn’t even the first one I’ve started. I’ve been in and around the book world a lot, I suppose, as a translator, and then my wife is an editor-in-chief of a publishing house, Catapult.

There’s something that draws me back to magazines, both in the sense that they’re a bit of a laboratory for what’s coming. My proudest moments ever being a magazine editor were when a piece that we’d published and worked on got picked up and turned into a book, or when a writer went on to embark upon the career that they wanted for themselves.

I think with a magazine, you can take a lot more risks inherently because of the scheduling. You can try three things out and if they don’t work, it’s only a month or a couple months until the next issue. But there’s also an ephemeral nature to it. What I mean by that is not that the writing is lesser or not as strong as what you might put in a book, but that there’s something about chasing the moment that is different in books. I think books have a different sort of timeliness to them.

Tell me more about that––that ephemerality and chasing the moment.

I suppose that with the magazines I’m working on–Kismet, for example–it’s not reportage and it’s not tied to the news cycle, but it is very much about writers trying to figure out what’s happening for people right now. In our first issue, there are a few articles that touch on that in different ways. Sheila Heti’s asking about how we can talk meaningfully to other people about the mystical moments that interrupt our everyday lives, and how we write about them. César Aira’s character has what he can only describe as an encounter with a ghost of his wife, even though he considers himself agonistic. I think many people who have experienced grief know what that sort of feeling is like. Then you’ve got Missouri Williams’ short story, which follows an older editor who comes to realize some very deep truths about himself just by reflecting and actually taking time to think about. There’s a gardening metaphor, as well, which is always nice.

What’s exciting to me is to get all these different writers from different places, at different ages, and put them up against each other and see where there’s friction, where a spark catches. The best part for us is that every two months, we get to do it all over again.

What do you think most writers need that they aren’t getting?

I mean, time and money are the big ones. Also, this might be controversial, but when I did my MFA, I found that the thing I most wanted to learn was how I liked to edit and collaborate. I don’t think I see too many things get better with two rounds of feedback from 12 individuals. I think finding a great editor who matches your style, who understands your vision and can help you be more of what you want to be is always the key.

I’m a bit more of a laissez-faire editor. The two beliefs I hold most dear are, one, that nobody knows more about the story or the article than the writer themselves, and two, it really is important after a certain point to get out of the writer’s way. I think things can be easily over-edited; their light gets extinguished. I always admire something that’s shaggy and ambitious and maybe misses the mark a little. I have a lot more time in my heart for that than the perfectly chiseled gem of a short story. Those things can be beautiful, too, but that style, to me, has had its cultural ascendancy. I’m much more of a baroque, “more is more” kind of a guy.

Perhaps it’s more exciting to work on something that has elements left to be explored?

Yeah. You can write something that’s edgy and experimental without having to have no verbs in it or something like that. I mean, there’s been a really big flattening of things. You see it in any sort of art form now, like with a Netflix-style documentary that’s meant to be recognizable and consumable. And I think small independent magazines are somewhere we can chafe against that, you know?

At Kismet, at the moment, it’s all online and all free. This is my other philosophy–you don’t have to read anything that we put out. I don’t kid myself that we’re at the forefront of what is the most important thing for people to be doing and reading.

Having a healthy relationship to literature is something that should be spoken about a bit more. I think a lot of people like to talk about how, “No one reads and we’re losing our ability to read,” and that’s not necessarily true. However, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to say that if you’re looking to really deeply understand a complex cultural issue, maybe you’re not turning to a novel first anymore. That might just be where we’re at.

Are there any books or writers who have changed your life? Or do influences feel more holistic?

There are some in there, yeah. Roberto Bolaño would be one. I think I’ve always been drawn to writers that have a semi-organized vision. I did a PhD on Latin American writers who had constructed an interconnected body of work across their books in the Balzac way. That’s something that really spoke to me, this idea of a parallel, connected literary world.

When I was a bit younger, I would articulate my passion for fiction by saying that it increases the amount of reality that’s available to me. There are some people who read to confirm or confront their own worldviews. For me, a lot of it really was armchair travel. There was a sense of wanting to see the world and get out of the skin into something so unlike my lived experience.

Can you talk about your experiences as a translator and linguist?

I started translating while I was doing part of my PhD in Argentina. I had a few friends who worked in publishing and part of their way of scouting for new books was to find someone who could read books in Spanish and write a bit of a report on them. So, I started doing that for a few places and approached it from that critical side. One of my reports was bought by a publishing house, and they asked, “Well, would you be interested in translating?”

I think, too, talking about how one has this sort of a life, that there’s no way I could have done that if I wasn’t in a funded PhD program. The amount of time and money it takes to do this doesn’t really compute with what the market’s got for it.

I’ll be honest, over time I’ve done a bit less of it because of those reasons. I’ve also been trying to write my own things and I find it more difficult to get out of the translating headspace. That said, it was a fantastic apprenticeship in terms of the high attention you have to pay. I think when you write, the phrases can come fully and flow. When you’re editing, you’re looking at the work as a whole, but translating is looking at one word at a time.

I would say that in a greater sense, translation is a very important thing in my life, but I don’t think I was ever interested in translation per se. It started out as wanting to read things that I couldn’t read.

I do believe in increasing the amount of reality available to writers, but I really don’t like the idea of having books in a translation section. I think these books belong next to writing in English. Calling attention to the fact that something that’s translated is useful insofar as it shows that we’re not living in a monoculture. Though, I can be a little skeptical of some of the metanarratives that have been around, which sort of imply that reading without translation just inherently makes you a better person. I think that’s almost going ‘round too far in terms of the globalist view.

You’re something of a polyglot. What are your top tips for learning a language?

My top tips… If you’re going to watch any movie, put the audio or subtitles in the language so you’re hearing and seeing it used all the time. Hearing it used properly is also important. Whatever your hobby or interest is, you can probably find that stuff in the language. If you like NBA, for example, you can go to the NBA website and put it in Spanish. It doesn’t have to be such a chore.

I was informed by an anonymous source that you have very specific ideas around which clothes should be worn to each event and professional situation, so I have to ask you about your outfits.

Oh, yeah. I’m not prescriptive with those sorts of things, but I do kind of believe in and enjoy a sense of occasion. Part of it comes from going to this very traditional boys school in Australia. We’re talking blazers and ties even in the height of summer. What we got to wear on the weekend or after school was something we really did get to choose.

I’m trying to think who put you up to this, but… Something can be lost when we think about the difference between style and fashion. You don’t have to be wearing expensive clothes to have a personal style.

I was at a party once with my wife and we saw these three guys, and we just couldn’t figure out what it was about their clothes that communicated something. Then, we hit on the fact that they were all wearing clothes head-to-toe that were brand new. It felt like they’d just gotten their packages from ASOS or whatever. I’m not here to cast aspersions or anything, but I think there wasn’t anything individual about that look except for, “I spend money on clothes.”

I think you can have fun with it. I think I used to wear almost exclusively monochromatic stuff. During the pandemic, we weren’t ever going anywhere. It meant that you could try something that was a little out there, but you’re only wearing it from the couch to the kitchen. Then there’s the idea of the sense of occasion. I like to say yes to things. A nice meal with friends–you don’t have to spend a lot of money to enjoy it–can be a pleasure you give yourself once, twice, three times a week. Is having a sense of occasion, having fun with it the be-all and end-all of everything? No, but does it bring an extra element to what life is? I think so.

You said that you’re working on your own writing at this point. Can we talk about that a little?

Well, all I’ll say is that I am working on a novel that I’ve been thinking about and planning for a very long time. I said to my wife about it, “I’ve written my novel. Now, I just have to write it.”

I’m on track sort of to have a draft finished by the end of the year. It’s something, you know, I’ve done every type of writing there is, really. I’ve done copywriting, speech writing, ghostwriting, translating, editing, but the thing I’m drawn back to is the novel.

I’ll be honest with you in this conversation, life has gotten in the way a few times. Now that I’ve got a bit more stability at the moment, I’m finding that I really enjoy writing it. I’m also at a point in my life where I’m like, if I don’t like it, if I’m not enjoying it, how could anyone else like it? That’s been a North Star for the project.

Has it been difficult to find or understand your voice when you’re always editing or translating other writers’ work?

That’s a really good question. It’s funny because I do find that every time I go back to visit Australia and I pick up an old history book or a novel that’s fallen out of discussion, or even talking with someone, there’s something vivifying about that. I think, again, we were talking earlier about this sort of flattening. There’s a specificity to everyone’s writerly voice. That’s something that I’m feeling much more comfortable leaning into. I think that’s also part of growing up, getting older.

Editing magazines and writers from all over the world, I’ve learned to value doing what you want. You don’t want everything to sound the same. I think what I’ve realized is that anything I like to read is always style-forward. Even a shopping list in the hands of the right writer can be interesting.

Given the nature of Kismet, I wanted to end by asking you if you’ve had any supernatural experiences?

I’ve thought about this a lot, and I’m starting to get this question given the nature of the magazine. What I come back to happened when I first moved to the US and to go to graduate school down in Tennessee at Vanderbilt. My mother got very sick, terminally ill, and basically, the hospital called me up and they said, “If you get on a plane now, it’s unlikely you’ll have time to say goodbye.”

I got back and she actually held on for about four or five months. It was sort of a long, drawn-out period and she eventually died. I had a very complicated relationship with my mother, and as when these sorts of things happen, it was suddenly just me and her. Everything else had to go on hold for an indeterminate amount of time.

When she did eventually pass–and I’m very grateful for this–I was in the room with her, I was holding her hand. For two or three or four days afterwards, I had this sense of clarity that I’d never felt before about so many things in my life. I felt touched by grace, I felt very forgiving, and very determined and sure about what I wanted in my life in many different ways.

I still recall that feeling. The air felt different. That’s, to me, the closest sort of thing to a mystical or supernatural experience. The sort of bittersweet thing about that is that the intensity of those days does lift after a while. Unfortunately, or fortunately–whichever way you want to look at it–time does march on.