Noticing the World More Closely: A Conversation with Claire Hopple
A tale as old as time: I first came across Claire Hopple’s fiction in a slush pile. I remember my foot tapping on the carpet in my old apartment as I read her story, “Talisman,” about a woman following another woman through town. I remember how the follower feels “about as necessary as the first ‘r’ in February.” I remember a walk I took the next day, where I couldn’t stop wondering if I knew each person that I passed, if maybe we’d been in second grade together, or if they carried three cellphones at all times. “Talisman” had not only thrilled me while reading—it opened me up to notice the real world more closely. It made me feel related to strangers. Do that to me with your sentences, and it’s an acceptance.
Claire Hopple has published now two books of short stories, and her third book, a novella-in-stories, is out this summer from Maudlin House. Tell Me How You Really Feel, with its story-like chapters, tells the story of Uncle Errol as he plans his living funeral. The book also explores a plethora of related family dramas, escapes, and mysteries that swirl around this odd and morbid event. Though the novella is a new territory for Hopple, each page comes complete with her signature attention to detail and her organic narrative structure. Hopple could be the child of Mary Robison and Scott McLanahan, with her uncanny ability to make a narrator feel like they’re sitting across from you on a couch, just hanging out and talking—but never sloppily, or with cheap affected slang, or in a way that makes you feel like the talking is just “talking.” It’s beautifully rendered, important talk. With that, I should probably stop talking.
I spoke with Claire over email about her new book, what makes her “wake up” in a story, and how alienation compels her desire to relate to other humans.
Tyler Barton: All the stories/chapters in your new novella have very casual, spoken titles (“I’m Glad You Asked”, “We’re Way Past That”, “Stop Me if You’ve Heard This”). The titles are talking to me, or else I’m listening to the title speak. Do you use titles to establish tone?
Claire Hopple: Colloquialisms have this unparalleled density to them. There’s the literal phrase, the cultural meaning, and so much subtext and personal context. Titles like these are supposed to invoke a casual, direct relationship with the reader and the work while representing each chapter’s mood. I try to make the reader—and myself—slow down and wake up.
TB: I like the idea of the “casual yet direct relationship” with the reader. I always feel like your narrators (whether they’re third person or first) have a very casual way of telling stories. But not casual in like “whatever” or a “random” way, but casual like, “I've known you a long time, and I'm happy to catch you up on some things that are going on.”
CH: That tone comes from this core desire to relate. I want understanding in a way that makes people feel comfortable and known. So the tone is there in the first draft, but there’s a bunch of other stuff that needs to be revised, like when my writing is not making any sense. My role in the nuclear family has always been striving to put others at ease and finding ways to bring idiosyncrasies to common light, and I think that comes through without necessarily meaning to.
TB: Tell me more about revising when you’re “not making sense,” because I think this gets at what I like about your work so much. Your stories feel very organic and irreducible—never tied with any kind of bow. It’s not easy to quickly describe what they are “about.” How do you know when something is not making sense? More importantly, how do you avoid changing it so that it ends up making too much sense?
CH: My fiction is innately sparse. I want everything in there to count, which can mean poor pacing or nonsensical conclusions. This is where my first reader comes in. My husband is my first and only reader, really. So if he’s really struggling with something, I go back to it, then do my best to clarify if I think he’s right. But I’m stubborn, so I don’t always think he’s right. I guess I do as little as possible to appease the confusion out of sheer obstinance. I’ll check back in several months when I have more perspective too. And thank you for saying you wouldn’t know how to describe what it’s “about.” I’m glad I’m not the only one.
TB: Are you, as Kurt Vonnegut advised, writing to just one person? If so, who?
CH: I have to say I’ve sort of agonized over that Vonnegut quote. I want the audience to be this one person, like his sister was for him. For me, the situation is a lot messier. With unabashed egotism, I’m writing to myself as therapy. I’m also writing to my husband. I’m definitely writing to fellow writers. And on a grandiose level I’m writing to non-readers. I must convert them. They were made for fiction and they just don’t know it yet.
TB: I imagine you may have family members or close friends who are non-readers? What do they think of your work?
CH: Nobody in my closest circles is remotely interested in this stuff. They want to support me because the poor souls love me, but there’s not much beyond that. I usually hear, “I don’t get it.” That hurt at first. Now, anytime I come across a reader who is really connecting with my work, I basically want to cry because I know it’s possible for someone to “get it.” These individual encounters have a tremendous impact on me.
TB: A lot of your work seems to center on themes of leaving. At the outset of TMHYRF, we learn that the protagonist’s uncle is planning his own funeral while he’s still alive, and early in the book the protagonist leaves her hometown. In your last book, Tired People Seeing America, there are a number of stories about people having left places or recently arrived in new places. Why do you think this is a preoccupation for you?
CH: This question is a lot sexier and more insightful than the answer. Maybe it’s something I need to think about more. Probably, it harkens back to the writing-as-therapy idea. Grief takes a lot of forms, and the smaller and more insignificant the loss, the less we feel justified in acknowledging it. Including a simple move to another town. A person can reject a place or a place can reject a person, I think. And both of those happen all the time.
TB: You’ve got roots in western Pennsylvania, and you’ve lived in the south for well over a decade. Do you identify as a “Southern” writer? If so, what does that mean to you? How does where you’re from or where you live now influence your work?
CH: I’m definitely not a Southerner or a self-identified Southern writer. I used to joke that this was my study abroad program back in college. People in Nashville would say, “How are you?” on the street and I would actually answer, not knowing that was a form of “hello.” Funny you should mention this. TMHYRF is the first thing I’ve ever written set in my hometown of Murrysville, Pennsylvania (just outside of Pittsburgh). I never expressly state this, but it’s there in the street names, landmarks, and culture. I loved growing up where I did. I don’t think I can fully claim the title of Yinzer anymore though. Appalachian feels close. Alien is probably most accurate. And alienation drives art because you crave relating to others even more.
TB: Where did the idea of the living funeral come from?
CH: I can’t remember how the idea initially came about, but I followed through with it because of how accurately it portrayed the human reaction to mortality. We all have this desire for control that manifests in idiosyncrasies. To think of a guy who wants to get the upper hand on death, who knows the house always wins, so to speak, and a guy like that draws this kind of conclusion—well, he exemplified and amplified a natural inclination, at least in my mind.
TB: Your first two books were collections of standalone short stories, and this book is a novella told in connected stories. The story is my favorite form, and I’m supposing it’s yours too. How do you deal with people asking, “So, when are you going to write a novel?”
CH: When people asked me that, I would say I was incapable of such a task. I’m no Faulkner. There aren’t any immensely detailed family lineages or intricately formed realms swirling in my synapses. I like words. I like sentences. Hopefully enough of those strung together makes something cool, but if not, it’s fun to play with them anyway.
So I felt pressure for years and dismissed it. I didn’t think I had the kind of mind for novel writing. To keep everything straight seemed overwhelming at first, plus the form doesn’t really fit with my typical blip of a narrative arc. But really, I thought I wasn’t able to pull it off. Then I tried just to prove myself wrong. And thinking of chapters as stories really helped me break that mental barrier. I ended up enjoying it enough to try it again, and I’m close to finishing up another novella manuscript.
Novels are a trend like anything else, albeit a longstanding one. The human attention span isn’t getting any longer though. Trends will change, and if they don’t, or if we die off first, we’re not in the game to please the masses or make money, so it’s ultimately a notion to shrug off. (Do you like that I’m suddenly speaking for you? Sheesh.) It’s important to remember that people who ask this question are interested in your work and that’s why they’re asking, but it’s hard to remember if you’re understandably frustrated by the question.
TB: When you’re reading, what are the specific ways that a piece of fiction can really grab your attention and—to use your term—wake you up?
CH: There’s that classic writing rule: Say something old a new way. When people do that by using snackable words and humor and the common experience all at once, it murders me. I try to copy it as much as possible without actually copying it. If there’s anything trite or unnecessarily descriptive, I’m going to have a hard time. I like experimental with a confessional core. I like seeing verbs you don’t see every day. For my WIP, all I can think about is verbs. I have lists of them for every chapter. I’m obsessed.
TB: Can you tell me about your work in progress?
CH: I’m finishing up an epistolary novella-in-flash. Each chapter is written to a different person from the same character.
TB: What’s something you used to believe about writing that you no longer believe to be true?
CH: If I were saying this to you in person, I couldn’t finish the sentence without laughing. I used to think if you were “in the zone” you didn't really need to edit your work later. I also used to think the act of writing always felt like a smooth experience, and lately I’ve found it to be much more taxing yet still just as enjoyable.
TB: I’m going to share with you my favorite line from the book: “The dog whimper of the door hinge and it was done.” Will you share your favorite?
CH: This is difficult for many reasons, but perhaps... “The cymbals were maybe supposed to be symbols, she would think later.”
Claire Hopple (@clairehopple) is the author of Tell Me How You Really Feel (Maudlin House, 2020), Tired People Seeing America (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2019), and Too Much of the Wrong Thing (Truth Serum Press, 2017). Her fiction has appeared in Hobart, Heavy Feather Review, People Holding, Timber, and others. More at clairehopple.com.
Tyler Barton is a cofounder of Fear No Lit, home of the Submerging Writer Fellowship. His debut full-length collection of short stories will be published by Sarabande Books in 2021. He’s also the author of the flash fiction chapbook, The Quiet Part Loud (Split Lip Press, 2019). His work has appeared in Kenyon Review, The Iowa Review, NANO Fiction, Gulf Coast and elsewhere. He lives in Lancaster, PA, where he works to provide community arts classes and teaches free writing workshops to residents of assisted living facilities. Find him at tsbarton.com or @goftyler.