“Catharsis Shouldn’t Happen Too Often”: A Conversation with Alejandro Varela on The People Who Report More Stress
It might seem reckless of me to deem National Book Award finalist Alejandro Varela’s The People Who Report More Stress one of the best story collections of the year when it’s the first I’ve read. But here’s the thing: Varela’s collection does everything right. The interconnected stories vary greatly in subject and style, but all deal with the anxieties of people living in the margins.
The collection opens with a second-person narrative about a married man using dating apps to find a sexual partner (with his husband’s blessing), followed by a story of a queer man hosting a playdate with his young son’s white friend and the friend’s outwardly polite yet bigoted mother. There’s a story about an immigrant struggling to support his family solely with his restaurant job who begins selling high-end designer clothes on the side, and one narrated by a Latine/x man with a despondent white therapist he tries breaking up with but continues returning to because of the everyday toxic stress he endures as a queer brown person. We meet the characters in different stages in their life—before they’re parents and after, early in a marriage and later—and through different narrative lenses.
The stories are not only masterfully written, but important—they probe at our society’s inequities and show those unaware of how the toxic stress of racial oppression impacts the health and well-being of marginalized communities. They’re never didactic and they’re always immensely readable. The collection is like his debut novel, The Town of Babylon, in that way—accessible, yet brilliant.
I had the pleasure to talk with Alejandro Varela via Google Docs. We spoke on how the collection was published, Varela’s process for drafting and revising the collection, and the act of writing as a long game.
Rachel León: I read in an interview that your agent tried selling this story collection a few times, so it sounds like this was actually the first book you wrote. Is that correct? And you sold both this collection and the novel in a two book deal—was there ever debate about which book would be published first?
Alejandro Varela: That’s correct. Between 2013 and 2017, I wrote a collection of stories. In 2018, I began working with my agent, Robert Guinsler, who tried to sell it—I believe that only five of the original sixteen stories made it into this current version—without much luck. He received positive, sometimes enthusiastic, responses, but everyone eventually passed. He did this three times, and in 2020, he found a buyer. My editor, Danny Vazquez, had wanted the collection in the first two rounds, but he couldn’t get his colleagues at FSG on board. The third time, he was at a new publisher, Astra House, where he had more sway. In fact, it was at Danny’s suggestion, and because of his championing, that I’d endeavored to write a novel. He’d argued (as many editors had) that if I could produce a novel, he’d be able to buy both manuscripts.
By the time he made an offer on the collection, I’d completed a first draft of The Town of Babylon. There wasn’t much of a conversation about which would come first; I was told it would be Babylon. I had my doubts because the stories were much more polished than the novel, but Danny convinced me. And he was right. The collection has changed enough—at its most bloated, it was twenty-three stories—that I’m glad we waited. Frankly, it could probably be even slimmer than it is now. Ha!
RL: No way, I wouldn’t want to lose any of these stories! I need to confess that I was so excited to read this collection, I skipped reading the back cover and the press release and jumped right in, so I missed the description that the stories were interconnected and didn’t realize that for longer than I want to admit. Which I think speaks to the strength of the collection—each story is vastly different and we see Eduardo from different vantage points, but there’s such thematic cohesiveness here. It sounds like you had a lot of stories to choose from. How’d you select which would be included?
AV: Thank you for saying that. I wrestled with these stories until the very end. I wrote each one as a standalone, which can lead to redundancies in set-up and character development because of the characteristics my protagonists share. I was, of course, also concerned with length, placement, voice, and style. I wanted there to be a smooth cadence to the order, so the reader could feel that each story contributed to the previous one and simultaneously introduced them to something novel. I was mindful of motifs and settings: Two stories with taxicab scenes is probably enough, but three is too many. Same with subway panic attacks. Same with infidelity. But basil plants can appear throughout. No more than two long stories in a row. Break up first-person stories with second and third ones. Catharsis shouldn’t happen too often, and certainly not at the beginning. Spread out the heavy-hitter stories. Playing with form is good if you do it more than once; one out of thirteen is weird. Don’t name every character because the reader can draw their own threads. Name at least one character per story because you don’t want to unmoor the reader. Don’t be too concerned with timelines, but don’t give anyone a headache either.
At some point, I wanted to write a linked collection or a novel in stories, but ultimately, it felt forced. As I was putting this collection together, I imagined a scenario in which each Eduardo was different because I could conceive of a United States in which there were many queer, class jumping Latine/x public health workers, and if that’s true, they all face the issues and have the encounters that Eduardo does because the systems and structures in which he operates are the same across society. This idea was important to me because it counteracted the typical assumption that the marginalized writer is the marginalized protagonist. They might very well be, but there are many of us too, and with those numbers come variety. A multiverse of Eduardos, if you will, which is either interesting or lazy!
RL: I’d say interesting! I love the idea of a multiverse of Eduardos. Obviously a ton of care, thought, and hard work went into assembling this collection, but it also seems like maybe you had fun? I say that because there’s a playfulness with the narration, some experimenting, yes, but also the stories are fun to read, even though they tackle serious social issues. As a white reader I want to amend my use of the word fun to say the stories are a pleasure to read (they are), but here’s the thing: I do have fun reading your work. It’s part of what’s so special about it; you wrestle with important social issues—systemic and interpersonal racism, classism, and the challenges of being queer in a heteronormative society, and illustrating how the stress of systems of oppression impact an individual—and yet you somehow manage to make the work fun to read. (Is fun the wrong word here?) I’m not sure how you pull that off… but I think it’s the humor.
AV: I think fun is an apt word, which is to say, I appreciate it. I tend to write in a neurotic voice that exaggerates my own. Because my protagonists delve into the big issues and sometimes into the weeds of those issues, the voice and style have to be more playful, even conversational. Balance is important. I want the reader to feel that a complicated thing or a controversial thing is made simple and relatable. And yes, fun, and hopefully, funny. I don’t want them to feel lectured, even if there is some lecturing happening. Imparting of information is probably a better way of putting it. Ha. Some of the tone and the result of my writing comes from my writing process. I write quickly but only after I’ve thought it through endlessly. Many of the conversations I have on the page are the very ones I’ve been having with myself for the last thirty years. I’ve been thinking about how to communicate certain ideas and emotions. When I sit down to write, I feel as if the first draft is a transcription of the mind.
RL: I love the description of the first draft being a transcription of the mind. Can you talk a little bit more about your process? I’m specifically wondering about your revision process and how much of the focus is on getting that balance right.
AV: My first drafts are rather coherent; in fact, The Town of Babylon was a lightly copyedited first draft when I shared it with Astra House. After I’ve written the last word, I give myself a week or two of distance from the manuscript. It’s a tumultuous period because I’m quite eager to dive back in, but I’m a writer who needs to separate himself from his work. I can’t see it clearly otherwise. Once the editing begins, I’m in my element. It’s my favorite part, probably because it feels less like sculpting something from a block of clay and more like a puzzle. And since I don’t read or edit as I write the first draft, I’m effectively reading something new. I seldom do big structural edits. During my first read, my focus is on fleshing out spare parts and shaving off the overwritten bits. I’m always copyediting, but I’m less concerned with the minutiae. I’ll add and subtract thousands of words during the first pass.
In the subsequent reads, I’ll read more intently for voice: Am I overwhelming the reader with my interiority? Am I belaboring a point that’s already been made? Is there enough humor to balance the professorial tone? In the latter passes, I’ll read even more closely: Is every sentence as perfect as it can be? Is the dialog believable? Am I overusing certain words? That (the word that) is my Achilles’ heel. In my current work in progress, I’m noticing an overuse of in fact, to be clear, and anyway. At the end, I comb my manuscripts the way I might run around my apartment just before the arrival of guests, tidying, hiding unnecessary things, inching furniture in various directions. I trim my work until the very last moment, and still, as is often the writer’s case, I remain unsatisfied. But usually I’m happy, which is probably the best I can be. When I’ve reached the happy place, I’ll send it to my agent and editor or share it with a few trusted beta readers. My partner is my alpha reader and usually reads my work after first pass. But as my career has progressed, I’ve tended to share my pre-publication work less frequently. I believe that has something to do with confidence.
RL: Speaking of your career, I almost opened the interview by asking what it’s like publishing this collection after your debut was shortlisted for the National Book Award, but seems fitting to close there. I know sometimes short story collections don’t get the love they should, but I really hope the success of The Town of Babylon brings more readers to this incredible book. Do you feel extra pressure with this book because of your novel’s success?
AV: I’ll be frank—why not?—I don’t feel any additional pressure. Babylon required a great deal of effort on my part, as far as promotion, more than I ever imagined. I wasn’t prepared or interested in being a spokesperson for my work, but I was, I am, and I’m realizing I will have to be for as long as I write. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t growing more comfortable with that responsibility. The National Book Award gives me a bit of leg room. It’s a prestigious recognition that opens doors and, more importantly, minds. It tells the room they should give me a chance. For someone with tremendous anxiety about self-promotion, this is quite soothing.
There is also a peace that comes from having fans. I’ve connected with many readers of Babylon. Their support is like a proof of concept: Amongst the panoply of reading tastes, my voice and my style have found a receptive audience. In other words, if no one else enjoys what I’m trying to do, at least I’ll have them. This too reduces pressure. There’s also something else: This is a long game. I have plans for several books (mostly novels). Together they tell a larger story about the myth of the American Dream and about the urgency of collective liberation. I’m less concerned with how well each work of mine is received than I am about the arc of my entire output, which doesn’t mean I don’t want each of my books to be loved and showered with praise. Once a middle child, always a middle child.
Alejandro Varela (he/him) (@drovarela) is a writer based in New York. His debut novel, The Town of Babylon (2022), was published by Astra House and was a finalist for the National Book Award. His work has appeared in The Point Magazine, Georgia Review, Boston Review, Harper’s, and The Offing, among others outlets. Varela is an editor-at-large of Apogee Journal. His graduate studies were in public health.
Rachel León (she/they) (@rachellayown) is a writer, editor, and social worker. She serves as Daily Editor for The Chicago Review of Books. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Rumpus, BOMB Magazine, Catapult, LA Review of Books, The Millions, Electric Literature, and elsewhere.