Literary fiction author Greg Fields is chatting with me about his novel, The Bright Freight of Memory.
Bio:
Greg Fields is the author of Through the Waters and the Wild, winner of the 2022 Independent Press Award for Literary Fiction, the Independent Publishers Association Award, the New York Book Award for Literary Fiction and two other national recognitions. His first novel, Arc of the Comet, was published in 2017. He is currently an editor for his publisher, Koehler Books, a member of the Irish Writers Centre and a regular presenter at the International Dublin Writers Festival. The Bright Freight of Memory is scheduled for release this month.
Welcome, Greg. Please tell us about your new release.
“In the end I believe our faults define us more than our virtues. Shakespeare’s greatest plays, the tragedies, revolved around their heroes’ flaws rather than their glories.”
Matthew Cooney and Donal Mannion shared their time as boys in a rundown neighborhood, without fathers, without comfort, without a sense of tomorrow, then went their separate ways, one to chase the trappings of maturity, the other to the streets. Their days shrouded in boredom, their nights filled with the thrill of the chase, each sought his place and his purpose.
Within their struggles are the challenges of escape, of outrunning the roll of the dice that placed them where they are, and, in the end, of defining what it means to be alive, to constantly strive for the things that are just out of reach.
Young men on the edges seeking to address the questions we all must face – Where shall I do now? Where do I go?
What inspired you to write this book?
When I was in downtown Washington, DC, which was frequent, I would see the homeless men gathering in the squares and green spaces, struggling to find some comfort and purpose. My earlier two novels had dealt with the essential questions of how we overcome our circumstances to define ourselves, but their characters had been born to a certain level of privilege. What of those who were not, and had to overcome the uncertainties of day-to-day living? How do they carve out their own place, their own sense of self, and, in the end, their own dignity?
Excerpt from The Bright Freight of Memory:
Down the street Dominick Salvaterra’s fruit stand still stood, buckets of produce arranged under the same red-and-white awning, faded now to a mawkish pink. And there Salvaterra stood, as he always had, handling the small register himself and entertaining the few customers who still happened by, most of them older and a bit hunched, like Salvaterra himself.
Donal walked over and picked up an apple, firm and red. Still the best around, he thought as he measured its weight. He grabbed another, then went to the register.
“Hello, Dominick. Remember me?” He gave over the apples to be weighed and costed.
“Should I?”
“I used to live around here. Years ago. My friends and I used to drive you crazy. We always managed to steal more than we bought.”
“Ah!” Recognition flashed into the old man’s eyes. “Mannion,” he smiled at the recollection. “Your mother used to buy from me every week. I remember. But you and your friends. Thieves, all of you,” he said with a small laugh. “Still, you come to expect that from young boys. We all tended to thievery back in the day, didn’t we?”
Salvaterra bagged the apples. “I should let you have these free of charge. But you’ve stolen from me enough, so I won’t. A dollar and twenty-five it is.”
Donal smiled and handed over five quarters. As he took the bag,
Salvaterra asked, “So, what are you stealing now?”
Donal paused. “Come again?
“What are you stealing now?”
“What makes you think I’m stealing anything?”
Salvaterra continued to smile. “You’re born to it, young man. All of us here, all of us on these streets, are born to it. It’s how we survive. And I mean no offense in the question. I meant it as a compliment. You’ve done what you had to do to get this far. Not everyone can do that – take what you need to survive.”
Donal shook his head and turned to go back on his way. “So,” asked Salvaterra once more. “What are you stealing now?”
“Only time, Dominick. Only time.” Donal Mannion walked back onto a sidewalk that, although filled with comings and goings, suddenly felt as lonely as a winter’s night.
What exciting project are you working on next?
Each Saturday morning I Zoom into a writing session at the Irish Writers Centre in Dublin. It’s a group of 25 or so, and each week we banter a bit, they tease the token Yank, and then we write to a random prompt. These prompts have allowed me to create new characters in new situations, and, after a few months, they tend to coalesce into fully formed, sometimes complex figures that can carry a story. There’s a new novel there, and over time I’ll find it in these characters and the situations that throw them together, all the product of a group of Irish rogues and rapscallions that provide humor, encouragement, and, most importantly, inspiration.
When did you first consider yourself a writer?
When I was writing my first novel I had a chance encounter with Pat Conroy, who for a while took me under his wing. He saw things in my writing that I did not have the courage to see for myself. He passed shortly before that novel was published. When it came into print, I felt not only Pat’s influence, but also his own joy at being a writer, at being in the company of other writers, and of doing what he could to build writers into a community. From that point forward, I promised myself that I would follow his lead to the best of my limited abilities.
Do you write full-time? If so, what’s your workday like? If not, what do you do other than write and how do you find time to write?
When I’m not writing, I’m an editor for my publisher, Koehler Books. I survey the manuscripts submitted, determine which might move forward and then work with Koehler’s other editors to refine the products. But the best part of all that is working with the writers themselves, sharing what I know, and helping guide them through this wondrous new landscape of being published. Again, the Pat Conroy effect, who once told me that if I ever did anything as a writer I owed it to any writer who approached me for help to give him or her my very best. I’m beyond grateful to be able to do so, even in small measure.
What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?
To me, my most interesting quirk is that I’m writing at all. But I tend to write best late at night, when it’s quiet and the day is done, the thoughts are calm, and there’s quiet music in the background.
As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?
I expected that I would one day be playing second base in the majors, preferably for the Dodgers. That didn’t work out.
Anything additional you want to share with the readers?
Writing, at its heart, is memory, an excavation of experiences and observations that craft themselves into thought. An excavation of our best moments, our worst moments, the sensations that have stayed with us as triggers all our lives, and, as writers, we are compelled to use the fertile mill of memory as our inkstand. The best thing, if not the only thing, we have to give our readers is the product of the lives we have led. Our thoughts and emotions, our biases, our fears, our aspirations and dreams – what better representation could there ever be of who we are? We are, in the end, fortunate to trust ourselves enough to begin the effort, and we hope the effort is enough.
And none of this would matter if it weren’t for readers who have faith that what they pick up to read is an honest and engaging portrait of a writer’s heart and mind that will, in some way, touch their own. That alone is worthy of respect, and the need for any writer to put forth his or her very best.
Thanks for being here today, Greg.