Guest Judge Nick Fuller Googins selected Nick Otte’s “The Snag” as this year’s Novel Excerpt Contest winner. Read “The Snag” first, then check out this interview in which Otte talks about finding his way into the novel, worldbuilding, writing in “stolen moments,” the importance of early readers who will tell you the truth, and more!
What originally sparked this book?
For a long time, I was wholly devoted to writing short stories. Always trying to write pieces that were tighter, punchier, got in and got out. In the back of my mind, I knew I would eventually want to try and write something bigger—something sprawling and imaginative, like my favorite books often are. Before I could do that, I felt that I needed to locate a central question or preoccupation to give to my characters, so I could explore the ways in which different people approach/deal with/make sense of a common dilemma. And I wanted something simple. Something I could explain in three words or less. I tried a bunch of things but eventually settled on the idea of the words you are invited—first heard over the car radio in the very first lines of the opening chapter—and I thought this was just what I’d been looking for (shoutout to both the greeting card section of my local pharmacy and, of course, The Dismemberment Plan.) These three words represented something that I thought might be both alluring and, potentially, a little frightening to just about anyone.
In that phrase, I had the engine I was looking for. The mystery of where/what my characters are being invited to, and by whom, and whether or not they choose to accept this invitation, is exactly what the book explores.
I’m always fascinated by the process of building excerpts. Here you’ve chosen to present us with Chapters One and Two, the excerpt ending with our two characters Jorie and Karl in the same space but not yet interacting. Could you talk a bit about that choice of excerpt: what did you want to present the readers with these two chapters, and what were you hoping we’d step away from the piece with (other than the desire to read more, which you certainly accomplished for me!)? Or, perhaps another way of asking this question, since this is presumably the opening of the book: What led to the decision to stop at this exact point?
The real answer to why I stopped where I did is, of course, the contest’s word limit.
That said, I chose to share the beginning because, practically, this is where I want readers to enter the world I’m building. Everything that happens in this story only happens because of the events of this night, and because of the actions of these characters on this night. There are other parts of the book that I love and would be equally eager to share, but I wouldn’t feel totally comfortable with pulling from a later part of the book, in part because they would lack context, and in part because these opening chapters set the tone and open the door to the world I’m building.
Would it be too cute to say the opening of any book is an invitation? Probably, right? Way too cute.
I’m sure we’re way too early in the novel for this, but as I was reading I kept circling around the title and how well it seemed to already fit the setup of this piece: every character is trying to accomplish something and being hit by setbacks that steamroll into larger problems. Maybe that’s intentional, or maybe that’s me forcing purpose onto something as a reader because these pages are all I have, but if it doesn’t give too much away, would you talk about the title and what it conveys?
“The Snag” is in part intended, as you suggest, as a reference to an aspect of the stories of each of the characters. Everyone in this book has a problem. Has hit a rough patch, been mistreated, made a mistake, or been thrown for a loop by time and circumstance. Jorie, Glenn, and Karl are just the first ones we meet.
But, as I hope readers will someday be able to see, “The Snag” isn’t really a metaphor. It’s an actual presence in the book, yet to be revealed in these chapters. It’s the main event.
From what we’re given in these pages, this seems to be a slightly-future world, where water is scarce and snow has disappeared; added onto that we have the mysterious words blasting out on all frequencies, and the animals that Jorie and Glenn see “snowparading” during the opening chapter. All of these elements combine to create an almost-but-not-fully fantastical vibe, while also seeding in clear conflicts the piece can explore as the pages open up. I’m not entirely sure what my question is here, but there’s something fascinating about the way you’re managing to tie worldbuilding, tone, and plot together with such marked elegance. Maybe I’m asking something about where your focus was as you were crafting these distinct elements; maybe I just meant to point to the skill there and dumbly ask, how did you do that?
Thank you for saying that. It’s a tough question. One that asks me to articulate a process that is, to me, largely a mystery.
This is just my own personal taste, but the “realness” I’m concerned with in any story has everything to do with the characters. Do they feel authentic in their reactions, movements, decisions, desires, fears? This is crucial for me as a reader, and something I’m always thinking about while writing. But circumstances are another thing. I come to fiction to step outside of the usual. To be immersed in the imagination and inventiveness of other minds. I want a story to show me real people who find themselves in extraordinary situations. To see them challenged by things that are totally unexpected, and at first glance seemingly impossible to explain. For me, that’s when the really fun stuff happens. And while I’ve got a lot of ideas in mind, I mostly want this book to be fun to read.
Regardless of the genres I’m working within, I think the thing I’m always going for is balance. Having one foot firmly planted in the real world, and the other foot planted somewhere else entirely. Knowing when the balance is right, and when it’s off, and reacting accordingly is an ongoing, ever-changing process.
As far as my speculative representation of the natural world, specifically, I think a lot of writers of my generation are writing and thinking about this topic because anyone who is paying attention to what’s happening is experiencing a sort of sublime terror about what might become of our planet, and probably sooner than we think. I don’t think it’s an accident or even a trend that a lot of artists are making work with this subject in mind. We’re all anxious and awed, and it’s only natural those things end up in the work. This subject takes up so much room in my mind, I’m not sure I could have written a book that ignored it.
I’m that annoying guy at the reading that always wants to ask the two super-cliché questions, so apologies in advance. First, can you tell us a bit about your writing routine? (mornings with coffee pecking at the keys; ten hours in front of a keyboard every day; chunks when inspiration strikes, et cetera?)
I’m a teacher. I’m also a bartender, and sometimes a dog walker, and sometimes an editor, and in between all of that, I try to write. I’ve rarely been afforded the privilege to get into a real “routine”—apart from short stints at residencies or in gaps between steady work—so most of my writing is done in stolen moments, between all of these other things. But in those moments, I write. Sometimes a lot, mostly a little, but never not at all.
I too am always interested in the nitty gritty of these things, so, since you asked for it:
I prefer to write in the morning. I’m useless after 5pm. I know plenty of night writers, and they are cooler than me, but in my opinion, nighttime is for having conversations and watching movies, not for “creativity.”
I do drink coffee, too much, and always in this blue mug I bought at a thrift store in Wyoming. (It helps me brainwash myself into feeling “productive”). I don’t listen to music. Even the slightest sound, like the gentle singing of a bird through the window, will annoy and distract me. Earplugs are often necessary. I can’t really write at home—the kitchen is right there. So, I try and get out. Lately I’ve become a member of a shockingly affordable coworking space here in Brooklyn, working mostly alongside other writers, many of whom I can tell are super committed and hardworking and are probably doing brilliant and provocative work, but few of whom seem to share my admittedly intense love of absolute silence.
When I’m revising, which is probably more than half of the “writing,” I print out pages, get horizontal, and go through them with a pen, making little notes, and then addressing them, ad nauseum. These notes aren’t insightful. My margins are mostly filled with words like “eh” or “no” or “more.” This process also requires coffee.
Second, beyond writing routine, what about your writing process? Are you a seventeen drafts before your first reader sees it kind of writer, or does it all flow brilliantly to fountain pen on first thought (someone someday will reply yes to that, I’m sure), or do you write a single sentence a million times until it’s perfect, or…?
Some days it flows (never “brilliantly”) and more days it doesn’t. For this book, I started keeping track of my words, and tend to write in 500 word “sprints,” after which I stretch, get more coffee, lightly revise, then “sprint” again. On an ideal day I’ll do this several times before my brain turns to mush.
When I get stuck, I despair, get more coffee, then try and come at the story from an angle I haven’t thought of before. In other words, to get as far away as I can from anything resembling “a plan.” I don’t outline—every time I decide what it is I ought to do, writing becomes an exercise in trying and failing to do “that thing.” For me it’s all about discovery. If I can find something that feels new and unexpected and a little scary, I’m off and running (for 500 words or so, anyway).
Of course, this requires a lot of revising, but I find revising to be a much more enjoyable process than composing. I would be happy perfecting a single sentence all day instead of writing a second one, but unfortunately most novels require writing several sentences at least.
I have one friend I will share messy works in progress with, but the truth is I don’t want too many voices in my head while I’m in the middle of something. Once I have the whole picture, even if its wobbly, I’ll make sure its readable, then consult a small group of people I trust to both butter me up and give it to me straight, almost all of them writers (but you want a few non-writers in there too, I think, to make sure you have “a story,” and not just “writing”). It’s a cliché that bears repeating (especially for my students): no one writes alone. Writing anything worthwhile requires a lot of time alone, but stopping there is, to me, stopping about a thousand miles short.
This excerpt is so much fun to read, and certainly does great work in whetting my appetite for the full work; obviously avoiding spoilers, what can you tell us about the novel?
Without giving any details, I will say this excerpt is only the very beginning of the very beginning. There are many more characters to meet and follow, some from quite far away from the place the book begins, and more strange occurrences to come. “The Snag” is big in scope but remains, if I’ve done my job, intimately fixated on characters who I, for one, adore. There’s a lot of traveling, a lot of mystery, a good amount of tragedy, and I hope a lot of lightness. It’s a book about people whose lives didn’t turn out the way they imagined, who are then presented with what might be a chance at something different, something altogether new. A story about the twinned fear and desire of the unknown. It’s the closest I’ve come to writing the sort of story I like to read, and I’ve done everything in my power to make it one that readers will want to keep reading to the last page. For now, I think that’s got to be enough.
Interviewed by Brandon Williams