Jonathan Evison interviews David Liss

JE: I should have made this post a month ago, upon the release of David Liss’s new book, “The Devil’s Company,”(about which the Washington Post raves), but alas, I’ve been up to my neck in dirty diapers and rewrites, so here we are. If you’re not familiar with Liss, the dude is a historical fiction franchise; the author of seven books, including the Edgar Award winning A Conspiracy of Paper. To mark the release of “The Devil’s Company,” (which marks the return of hero Benjamin Weaver), I thought I’d share an interview I did recently with DL, which originally ran in KNOCK.

For starters, beyond being an amazing writer with astounding range (and I lost count of how many NYT notables), I can tell you firsthand, that D.L. is a prince, and always a pleasure to powwow with about craft, story, and all things writerly. When I was so deep in research preparing for West of Here that I couldn’t see out of it, D.L. gave me some profound advice, when I asked him when I should stop researching. He told me to stop researching once the research started getting in the way of the story I wanted to tell. I still hold that as the perfect answer. And man, did I take it to heart. I think it helped strengthen my entire narrative approach to the thing. So, I guess I’d like to ask D.L. to elaborate on the relationship between research and story, and whether his approach has evolved over the course of his career?

DL: I think my take on research has always been a little skewed because of my background. I was pursuing a doctorate in 18th century British literature when I decided to write my first novel, so I had the advantage of years of research under my belt before I began to shape the story and the characters. With the subsequent books not set in 18th century Britain, I’ve wanted to achieve something like the comfort level I had with the subject matter of the first book, though I recognize that it’s neither possible or practical to really get there. But the research is key for me because until I understand the time and culture about which I’m writing, it is impossible for me to get a sense of my characters or what kind of story I want to tell about them. I try very hard to create characters and situations that are specific to time and place. So ultimately, all of these things are bound together, and it’s impossible for me to separate the research from the other elements of the novel, though I will say that the thing that inevitably fascinates me the most is the effort to recreate a historical subjectivity. Of course we can never really know how people in the pre-modern past experienced their lives, but taking my best shot is always a big part of the excitement for me. I hate historical fiction that essentially places modern people with modern sensibilities in the past. I hate this kind of writing in part because it’s just wrong, but also because it misses out on what is so exciting about the process of writing about the alien past. People were different. They perceived often the most basic things in ways we would find impossible foreign, and it is just so much more interesting for me to try to piece all of that together.

I don’t know that my approach has evolved or changed over the years, but I do think I’ve managed to streamline certain parts of the process. I’m working on my seventh novel now, so I’ve had a lot of trial and error, and I’ve learned a great deal from those approaches that have worked or from those that turned out to be long and exhausting journeys down blind alleys.

JE: I’m drawn to this idea of historical subjectivity. It seems to me that most histories rather attempt the opposite–they try to present a very neat one-dimensional objectivity through which we view the whole panoply of people, events, and circumstances associated with an age. A novel seems like the perfect vehicle to explore the nuances of this historical dynamic, to deconstruct the generalities, to illustrate the “living” element of history. As you populate these histories, as you inhabit these characters, do you glean a whole new understanding of an era which is beyond the scope of research? And how, if ever, do you resist the temptation to rewrite history?

DL: This idea of trying to get inside the heads of people from very different times –it is what I see as the primary function of the historical novel, or at least the kind of historical novel I write. There are, of course, other kinds of historical novels with other goals. Some novels take the historical record and then attempt to “bring it to life” by taking major figures and turning them into fictional characters as they go through motions already determined by history. I have nothing against this kind of book, but I don’t write them and I tend not to enjoy reading them. I think history already does a pretty good job of relating history, and I don’t see it as the novel’s function to make history “easy.” Rather, I am much more interested in doing what history doesn’t do – that is to say, fill in blanks of human experience that cannot be entirely gleaned from the written record.

As far as the notion of rewriting history goes, I think that is the main reason I tend to stay away from real historical figures in most of my novels. If I am writing about a real historical figure, he or she becomes a character for me, and I will want to work with that character in a way that best advances the book. When these ideas are in direct conflict with history, then that creates problems. In a larger sense, I think there is always a temptation to tinker with the historical record in order to produce the most satisfying character or story possible, but part of the job of the novelist is working within whatever limitations you’ve chosen for the project.

JE: In your forthcoming novel, The Devil’s Company, which I believe comes out fall ’09, you return again to Benjamin Weaver, a character who first appeared in a pair of your earlier novels. Do you share a special identification with this pugilist-turned private investigator? And what was it like to re-inhabit Benjamin after nearly five years away from him? Did he fit comfortably like on old pair of slippers, or was there a period of getting re-acquainted?

DL: Benjamin Weaver was the protagonist of my first novel, and when it was done I was under a certain amount of pressure from my publisher to write a sequel immediately. I didn’t want to do it for a couple of reasons: first, because I felt like I needed a break from that universe and, in a larger sense, from 18th century Britain; but also because I didn’t want to box myself into a certain kind of career. On the two occasions I’ve gone back to write about Weaver, I’ve enjoyed it immensely. The hardest thing about starting a new novel is finding the right voice in which to tell a story, so it’s very nice to able to jump right into story and character without having to figure out voice.

I don’t know that I identify with him much as a character, but I do think that there is a certain wish fulfillment with a character who doesn’t put up with crap from anyone and lives in a society in which there are few consequences for his anti-social outbursts.

JE: This last statement makes me think you’d write a hell of a western. Talk to me about some of the books and writers and experiences which have most informed your writing.

DL: I spent about five years of my life, when I was in grad school, doing absolutely no leisure pleasure reading, b
ut when I went to write my first novel, I was definitely mindful of the greats from the period I’d studied, especially Henry Fielding, Tobias Smollett, Frances Burney, Eliza Haywood, and especially Jane Austen. At the same time, I began reading contemporary popular fiction, and I think I learned how to write contemporary fiction simply by reading carefully. I always tried to reverse engineer scenes, characters and plot developments I found engaging, or those I thought were failures. In fact, I learned almost as much from books I didn’t like as those I did. As far as later writers go, I learned a great deal from reading one of all my all time favorites, Anthony Trollope. I read Dresier’s Sister Carrie when I was ramping up to write my second book, and I think it cast a pretty long shadow. As far as contemporary writers go, I read pretty widely and voraciously, and I try to learn from everything I read. I’m hesitant to name “favorites,” but if you pointed a gun at my head and said I had to choose someone, I’d probably go with David Mitchell.

JE: I love David Mitchell! In fact, Cloud Atlas was a big inspiration for West of Here, which plays right into another part of your answer: It was specifically what I viewed (subjectively, of course) as the book’s “failures” which instructed me. As I was reading the book (and loving the scope, ambition, and narrative virtuosity), I became increasingly convinced that Mitchell had written six novellas and nested them after the fact, which Mitchell later confirmed in an interview. I felt that he had missed such great opportunities in terms of connective tissue, that I set out to write a novel of sprawling scope which was about that very connectivity. I’m guessing from your answer– the fact that you’re still aware of Drieser’s shadow, the fact that you learn something from everything you read, good or bad—that you experience the body of literature as a sort of ongoing dialectic, instructing itself toward truth. Or maybe I’m just stoned. Is this even a question?

DL: I actually thought Cloud Atlas was more coherent than Ghostwritten, though I loved that book as well. But as for your question, I’m not sure I’m willing to go so far. Not that I think your hypothesis is wrong, so much as it is not mine. When I think of “contemporary literature,” I tend to think of it in its broadest sense — that is, including commercial and genre fiction. I know plenty of writers who want to place themselves in the continuum of great fiction and actively and openly engage with the past, but I also know plenty who are mainly interested in making a lot of money. Those in the second category are necessarily, even if they don’t know it, engaging with writers of the past, though perhaps less actively and overtly. I think it is obviously true that, in any art, a practitioner must choose what elements of the past to accept or ignore, but because so many elements of fiction and narrative and character are absorbed by social osmosis, it seems to me very possible to make important contributions to literature without engaging in any sort of conscious engagement with the past. It is, of course, possible to see the literature itself as engaged in this dialectic, but couldn’t you say the same thing about, say, automobile design?

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