Fantastic Metropolis

Brendan Connell: Speaking of getting lost in a maze, how did the idea for The Labyrinth evolve?

Catherynne M. Valente: I want to be able to say that it was germinating for years, and when I look back it seems as though it was, but at the time I simply sat at my computer with the intent to write a novel where I could be as dreamlike and surreal as I wanted to be. The image of a maze leapt almost immediately to mind. From there, it just came in huge portions, and only took me ten days to write, it was so present in me. I was able to use the framework of The Labyrinth to discuss a lot of the things that recur in my work, like the power of names and the meaning of the age-old idea of a quest.

Brendan Connell: It struck me as having a lot of automatic writing in it, such as the surrealists used. Would you be comfortable with the term “automatic writing” for the book?

Catherynne M. Valente: Not really. It implies that the writer is not at the wheel—or at least asleep. And while it contains a lot of—well, we tend to call it “satori-writing” around the house,—I was very conscious of what I was doing, even as my fingers ran away with my brain. Automatic writing borders dangerously on gibberish—in poetry, the equivalent is the Language poets, who leave me totally cold. There has to be a balance between chaos and meaning—not just chaos. There has to be an emotional core, not just words, words, words. But in the sense that there was a trance-like method involved in writing parts of the book, yes, I’d say there is a relationship to automatic writing or language poetry, but I like to think it straddles the line.

Brendan Connell: Well—many of the surrealists used the term “automatic writing” even though they produced coherent works. So for surrealism then, what are your influences?

Catherynne M. Valente: Painting, for the most part. My living room was covered in Dali while I was writing this book. Surrealist painters are a profound influence on me. As for writers there’s Borges, who is not entirely a surrealist, but tends more in that direction than most magic realists. And Nin is at her best totally surreal to me. When she tries to write conventional novels, she fails. Because I spent so much time in a classical studies program, at the time of the writing of The Labyrinth I had been reading more Greek than English. But I get the idea this isn’t what you want.

Brendan Connell: What I want?

Catherynne M. Valente: Strictly surrealist writers?

Brendan Connell: Not necessarily. When I read your book, I was reminded of Aragon—a strictly surrealist writer. But that does not necessarily mean that that is where you are coming from. Aragon was accused by some of being too structured.

Catherynne M. Valente: Honestly, while I was writing I didn’t think about structure or genre at all. It’s only now that others are making attempts to classify it that I am confronting the cultural context of the book.

Brendan Connell: In any case, when someone who has never read your work asks you the inevitable question “What kind of stuff do you write?” what is your reply?

Catherynne M. Valente: I usually say poetry and fiction, and none of it particularly normal.

Brendan Connell: And no one pokes around for more information?

Catherynne M. Valente: The difficulty of explaining the plot of any of my books usually leads to at least an hour long conversation about how it’s sort of like surrealism, but not really.

Brendan Connell: Ah good. Then I am in sync with the general population.

Catherynne M. Valente: I make comparisons to “high modernism” since I don’t really see it as post-modern—which is so intensely concerned with structure.