Discussing: "Pancakes" by Kristin Tenor, published in Wigleaf

"perhapsing" and writing from a place of wonder

"There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.” ~Toni Morrison”

UPCOMING WORKSHOP

Hi, friends! Before we get to my interview with Kristin, I’d to let you know a few spaces remain in my upcoming 3-in-90 workshop, “Writing with Courage & Conviction,” on Saturday, December 7th from 1:00 - 2:30 p.m. Eastern Time U.S. This is a 90 minute live (on Webex, similar to Zoom) generative workshop. These sessions are interactive and highly productive for everyone who takes part. I’d love for you to join us! Get more information and sign up HERE.

Today, I have the pleasure of interviewing the lovely and talented Kristin Tenor, about her flash, “Pancakes,” published a while back in Wigleaf and is featured in her collection, This is How They Mourn, available now from Thirty West. Here is my blurb for the collection:

"With prose that's both elemental and dreamlike, Kristin Tenor creates quietly powerful distillations of love and life and grief. In these pages, you'll encounter lost children and drowned boys, blackbirds and daylilies, carnival rides and distant train whistles, crazy quilts and dandelion wine. Tenor guides us through the liminal spaces and the haunted landscapes of human experience with remarkable compassion and sensitivity. Unforgettable and gorgeously written, This is How They Mourn is an immersive and deeply moving collection by one of the best writers currently working in the very short form."

Pancakes by Kristin Tenor (originally published in Wigleaf and reprinted here with permission from the author)

She doesn't know why her mother walked barefoot to the neighbor's pond that day or why she set the rowboat adrift or why she lay in the bottom of it dressed in her blue terrycloth bathrobe with an anchor tied around her slim, white ankle like a string tethered to a runaway kite. She wonders how long she waited for the sun to rise or if she instead stared intently at a hawk floating in wide, lazy circles above her. She also wonders why her father didn't run after her, why he stayed behind to make pancakes while she and Lucie wailed along with Patsy Cline singing "Crazy" over the turquoise AM radio plugged into the wall beside the percolating coffee pot and two empty mugs sitting side by side with their handles pointed away from one another. She doesn't know why they didn't ask where their mother had gone so early on a Sunday morning or why they hadn't been told to change into their dresses and Mary Janes so they wouldn't be late for the 8:15 service at Old St. Joe's. She doesn't know why they didn't miss her. Maybe they were too caught up watching their father flip pancakes into the air, higher and higher, like a carnival performer. They ran around the kitchen, holding their plates, trying to keep the perfect cakes from hitting the tacky linoleum floor, where their father's mangy coonhound, Melchizedek, would surely ravage them whole. She and Lucie may only have been six and seven, but they knew how gravity worked.

KF: Thanks so much for agreeing to chat with me, Kristin! To me, “Pancakes” is an excellent example of a breathless paragraph flash. It's very brief and powerful and the reader is confronted with the narrator's recall of the events of a traumatic day. Did you make a conscious decision to use that form? If so, why? 

KT: During my tenure as the flash fiction editor at CRAFT, I had the pleasure to work with Kim Magowan on her wonderful piece, “The Vibe Tonight,” which also utilizes a breathless paragraph structure. In her accompanying author’s note, I remember her commenting on how the form is like “the syntactic equivalent of a sensory overload someone might experience during an acid trip”—that our adrenaline races ahead of our brains. And I think that’s the same propulsion we experience when caught up in our own streams-of-consciousness, especially when trying to solve or understand the unexplainable, such as the narrator’s loss of her mother. One memory or question leads to another then another and so on. However, I wouldn’t say I made a conscious decision to use the breathless form as much as the story chose to present itself in this way. I simply trusted it.

KF: Let's talk about how you open this story. "She doesn't know why..." and then "that day," both lend gravitas and significance to the story you're about to tell. It's instantly compelling. Opening lines are one of the things I revise and futz with the most, but I know sometimes that first line comes to us like a gift and an entry point, even when we're not sure what's to follow. I do have a question! Did you begin with this opening line or did it come about after some revision of the story? 

KT: This piece went through several iterations before everything came together, which often seems to be the case with most stories I write. The initial draft centered around a woman watching her partner make pancakes the morning after they’d had an argument, which triggered the memory of the woman’s father doing the same when she was a child. Yet, the narrative voice came across as distant, almost elusive. I wrote a few more drafts, hitting the same wall over and over again, so I finally set the story aside. A few weeks later, I had the good fortune of joining you and Nancy Stohlman at your annual flash fiction retreat in Grand Lake, Colorado. During one of our workshop sessions, you encouraged us to write a narrative from a place of wonder or “perhapsing,” which prompted me to consider what the narrator didn’t know or wanted to better understand about the day her mother left her behind. Once I wrote the opening “She doesn’t know why…” the rest fell onto the page pretty rapidly.

KF: I'm struck by your marvelous use of evocative imagery in this story. One that I find especially interesting is the anchor tied around the mother's ankle "like a string tethered to a runaway kite." It's such an unexpected simile and one I pondered. Unexpected description is a great way for flash writers to deftly convey meaning, emotion, and tone. So here, we have the heavy anchor juxtaposed with the lightness of a runaway kite. The image of the kite, to me, signifies a sort of reckless freedom. Perhaps this mother's spirit, unlike her body, cannot be tethered. I'd love to hear your thoughts on your own word/image choice here. 

KT: Thank so much, Kathy. I love your interpretation of the kite signifying a sort of reckless freedom the mother cannot afford otherwise. While writing this piece, the image of the mother lying in the bottom of the boat with the anchor tied around her ankle haunted me for days and, honestly, still does. Much like the narrator, I keep asking myself why—why would she do such a thing? Did she feel weighed down by her familial obligations or, like so many of us, some unrealistic expectation she placed upon herself? Did she suffer from volatile mood swings, an undiagnosed chemical imbalance? Did she feel some sense of betrayal or guilt she couldn’t reconcile? Perhaps. Regardless the reason, the imagery of the anchor juxtaposed against that of the runaway kite hopefully signals to the reader the woman’s struggle to keep herself grounded against the chaos consuming her from within. And the kite—a deep yearning to be free of it all no matter the cost.

KF: This is the kind of story that is essentially a mystery. It's a flash where the narrator grapples with unanswered questions about a past event. As a reader, I found this so moving. There's so much longing in the girl, presumably now grown, as she tries to make sense of that day. Yet here again, there is lightness. The father makes pancakes for the daughters showing no signs of distress and offering no explanations for the mother's absence. The images are carefree, joyful even. I love them singing along to "Crazy" and the wonderful period details of the radio, the percolator, and the linoleum. Yet! You show us one image that lends a hint of darkness to the scene: the two mugs with their handles pointed away from each other. Can you tell me how important imagery is to this story and to your flash work in general? 

KT: Imagery has always been important to my flash work, and this piece is no exception. About nine years ago, I took a writing workshop at UW-Madison facilitated by the writer Christopher Chambers. He introduced our class to Robert Hass’ “Story About a Body,” which concludes with the lasting image of a blue bowl filled with dead bees covered by rose petals, and I’ve never forgotten it. I’m continually amazed and inspired by what the well-chosen detail can convey through image and implication alone. I see imagery as an open invitation to the reader. It allows the reader to draw upon their own nostalgia and emotions so a deep resonant connection can be made with the character/story. It’s often been said resonance is key to any lasting piece of literature. That connection is definitely something I strive for with each story I write.  

KF: Now, to your last line: "She and Lucie may only have been six and seven, but they knew how gravity worked." "Gravity" is such a layered word choice for this piece (I thought of the various meanings of "grave" for example). It's an ending that resonates emotionally as the reader considers whatever future lay ahead for the two sisters. The pancakes are momentarily suspended in air and it's up to the girls to "catch" them to avoid losing them to the old coon dog. I realize I've been analyzing your story, finding complexity in the images, but it's true that sometimes our readers see things and make connections and metaphors from our work that we ourselves didn't consciously intend. How much of this was intentional for you or subconscious? 

KT: One of the things I love most about participating in writing workshops is listening to everyone discuss one another’s pieces—just how many varied interpretations rise to the surface, how a particular character or image in the story connects with one reader a certain way while much differently with the next. As the writer, though, I’m simply transcribing the story from my imagination onto the page without any intentional bias or predisposition. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t go back and tweak the phrasing or exchange one image for another because in the end it’s more authentic to the characterization, tone or what have you. With regard to choosing the word “gravity” in this piece, that came as one of those gifts you mentioned earlier. And yes, after reading the piece back to myself, I kept it there because I knew the dualistic meaning worked well both on the surface and metaphorically. I prefer endings that allow the reader to draw their own conclusions about the character’s future, while leaving an image that strikes a nerve and stays long after the story has been read. 

KF: I'd love to hear your thoughts on pulling together your phenomenal collection, This is How They Mourn. Did you notice recurring themes, images, word choices? Did the process give you new insights into your own writing? 

KT: I’ve always been curious about the haunting liminal spaces that exist between unexplainable loss and what remains. Human relationships by their very nature are so multifaceted and complex and conflicted and let’s face it…messy. The seventeen pieces included in This Is How They Mourn were written over a six year period, and as I began placing these stories side by side I noticed many of my characters were grieving or trying to figure out how to carry on in the midst of experiencing one loss or another. I also realized a good majority of these characters inhabited the same rural Midwestern landscape of my youth, even though those details emerged organically rather than being a conscious intention from the onset. I guess it’s like they say—“You can take the girl out of the country, but not the country out of the girl.” Overall, though, I still find it intriguing how often we as human beings must shed one life in order to rebirth ourselves in an attempt to draw closer and closer to our ultimate calling—to forgive and love one another (and ourselves) unconditionally. My hope is that these stories make us all feel a little less alone on that journey.

KF: Thanks so much for sharing your process and background for my readers, Kristin! I urge everyone who is interested in learning flash or just loves to read it, to purchase your collection. Congratulations!

Kristin Tenor finds inspiration in life’s quiet details and believes in their power to illuminate the extraordinary. She is the author of the flash fiction chapbook, This Is How They Mourn, which won Thirty West Publishing House’s 8^th Wavelengths Chapbook Contest. Her fiction has appeared in Best Microfiction 2024, Wigleaf, Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y, 100 Word Story and various other literary journals and anthologies. Kristin’s work also has been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and the Pushcart Prize as well as longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50. She currently serves as the Reviews Editor at Story.

Purchasing link for the chapbook: https://www.thirtywestph.com/shop/thisishowtheymourn

Thanks so much for reading, friends!

Peace & Love,

Kathy