Publish and Perish, part 19: Magical Realism

[Context: read the previous part or start at the beginning. TW: bad amateur fiction!]

“So, welcome back,” said Morris to the trio, now that they were all assembled on the stage. “How has your week been so far?”

“Well,” said Cissy, “I’ve been kind of cold standing here in the enormous shadow of Doctor G-Cut, but I’m coping as well as I can….”

“Oh, right,” said Morris. “The rapping biologist.”

“What?” said Hector.

“Haven’t you heard? Gerry’s rhyme-spewing alter-ego is now a big YouTube star,” Cissy said.

“Oh, please.” Gerald wasn’t about to let on that he was enjoying the attention. “One of my students posted a grainy video from class….and it has gotten about, I don’t know, fifty thousand views, or whatever.”

“So,” said Hector, “fifty thousand people have engaged with something that you did? I would kill for that level of interest in one of my pieces.” He paused. “Not literally, of course.”

“Fifty thousand people,” said Gerald, “have had a laugh at the expense of a strange biology professor coming apart at the seams. I’m not sure that’s the legacy you’re hoping for, Hector.”

Morris jumped in. “All right,” he said, “let us indeed turn this discussion toward Hector’s legacy. Hector, can you tell us about what you’ve been thinking about this past week?”

“Sure,” said Hector. “So… I’ve been researching and writing a book for the last few years, and… Well, is it fair to assume that none of you know all that much about the literary genre of magical realism?”

“Well,” said Gerald, “I once watched The Legend of Bagger Vance. Does that count?”

“I’ve read One Hundred Years of Solitude,” added Cissy. “But not much else.”

“OK,” said Hector, “suffice it to say that I’ve spent the last five years writing a book that hardly anybody will read — unless I assign it for my own classes, in which case I’ll feel like a schmuck.”

“Right,” said Morris. “So last week I asked you, Hector, to reflect on how it might feel to release a book that has a very small but potentially passionate readership. As an additional step in that direction, I want us to now imagine ourselves to be at a book-release event where your audience is quite small, but where those present are genuinely excited to be there and to read your book. So can we all try to enact that situation with as much sincerity and enthusiasm as possible?”

There were nods of agreement.

“OK. Fantastic,” said Morris. “Now, Hector, what’s the title of your book? Or the working title, anyway?”

“One Hundred Years of Magical Realism,” said Hector a bit sheepishly.

“OK!” Morris switched into his public speaking voice. “I’d like to welcome you all to this celebration of One Hundred Years of Magical Realism, a brand-new book by Hector Vargas Gomez, a Professor of English at Conley College.”

Cissy and Gerald clapped and whistled, attempting to recreate the sound of a larger crowd.

“Professor,” Morris continued, “I believe your last book was kind of a reexamination of Don Quixote, was it not?” Hector nodded, looking pleased that Morris knew this. “So then this new book would seem — from the outside, at least — to be a bit of a departure for you. How did you get from that book to this one?”

“Well,” Hector began, “about a decade ago, my department — the English Department — was doing a big review of its curriculum, with an eye toward diversifying our offerings so that we could stop being so focused on, you know, Shakespeare and Homer and Faulkner and so forth. And that led some of us, myself included, to read more outside of our usual comfort zones in the hope of figuring out what non-canonical stuff we might want to incorporate. And I found myself really enjoying a bunch of different books in this genre, magical realism, that I hadn’t taken very seriously up to that point. I had read Garcia Marquez and Rushdie, of course, but I discovered some others — like this Polish psychologist, Olga Tokarczuk, who’s very very good. So I kept reading and teaching in this area until I realized that I might have a solid foundation for a book.”

Gerald raised his hand and spoke. “As you know, words sometimes have very different meanings in academic circles than they do in everyday life. In my field of biology, for example, my students routinely refer to the lower limb as ‘the leg’, not realizing that the strict anatomical definition of ‘leg’ is only from the knee to the ankle. So, for you, does ‘magical realism’ mean more or less what we non-English professors would think it means? Or do you use a more technical or more restricted definition?”

“I think the term is nicely accessible,” said Hector. “You have a premise that is realistic or even pedestrian, you sprinkle in some magical or fantastical elements, and — presto! — you have magical realism, more or less.”

“The way you’re describing it,” Cissy said, “it sounds as though it would be relatively easy to experiment with writing in this genre. Is that something that your students do much of? Or any of?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Hector, “one upshot of the departmental curriculum revision was that I started offering a course in reading and writing magical realism. This was unusual because, in English, we generally have literature-reading courses on the one hand and creative writing courses on the other, taught by different faculty who have expertise in one or the other. But in the first half of this course we sample some different authors, constantly asking the question of, what is accomplished in each story by the inclusion of the unrealistic elements? And then in the second half of the course, the students give this a shot themselves by developing their own magical realism stories. It’s been amazing to see what the students come up with. Last semester, one student wrote a story in which the magical aspect was simply that, whenever there was a moment when the protagonist could conceivably have either good luck or bad luck, the most probable outcome was always the one that actually occurred, every single time. And eventually the protagonist figured that out and had to decide how to make use of this knowledge. It was quite funny, but it also included some profound exploration of the concept of free will….”

They continued in this manner for another 25 minutes. Gerald thought the questions they generated were excellent, considering their lack of preparation; in any case, Hector had plenty to say in response. Finally, as Gerald was about to ask Hector about his writing habits and rituals, Morris closed out the scene.

“Great work, everyone!” Morris exulted. “Now, Hector, how was that for you? Please be as honest as you can. I don’t think anyone’s feelings will be hurt if you found us less than ideal as an audience.”

Hector appeared to be blinking back tears. “No, no,” he protested. “One could not ask for a better audience. I know it was just a simulation, but it felt real. Very real. You guys….”

“I’m glad you felt that way,” Morris continued. “However, I also must ask: did the size of the audience matter? Were you thinking about that? Did it affect your experience?”

“I’d have to say no, not really,” admitted Hector. “Not once we got past the first couple of questions.”

Morris pressed on. “I don’t want to be too heavy-handed here,” he said, “but do you think this scene gave you any insight into this issue we’ve been discussing — this issue of producing work that may only be of interest to a few people?”

“Yeah, I think I see where you’re going with this,” said Hector. “The thing about audiences is — well, you have the quantitative aspects of it, like how many copies of the book are sold and how many people come to the talk, and then you have the qualitative aspects, like how does it feel to be interacting with these people? And…and I think it’s easy to get depressed about the quantitative side, even though the qualitative side can be really great.”

Hector took a look around at his colleagues, then continued. “It’s kind of like teaching, I guess. If you hold a senior seminar with twelve students, you don’t see it as a failure because there are only twelve students. You mostly think about the rich interactions that you’re having with those twelve. And you wish that all of your courses could be like that!” Gerald nodded and smiled. “Amen to that!” said Cissy.

There was a moment of silence, and then Morris jumped in apologetically. “I’m afraid that’s all the baring of souls we have time for today,” he said. “Gerry and Cissy, you’re on deck for next time, OK?”

“I can’t wait,” said Gerald. He was only half-kidding.

[Update: the story continues with part 20.]