Matthew Baker’s second collection of short stories, Why Visit America (out now from Henry Holt), takes ambitious aim at this country’s societal and political systems. Each story arrives through some manner of warped lens—a lens in which America, at first, appears very unfamiliar. New technologies, new borders, new pandemics. But the deeper into these stories you read, the more you recognize similar dangers at play in our own United States. The stories quickly cohere into a comprehensive map of current anxieties and existential interrogations. And that’s where the collection’s genius becomes most apparent: when you suddenly realize your expectations and assumptions about core American values have been constructively turned upside-down. I had the pleasure of interviewing Matthew Baker about his new collection over email in July.
Alexander Lumans: Let’s start with the collection’s title, Why Visit America. Since it shares titles with one of your stories, I’m curious as to when and how you arrived at this particular title. What kind of mood or impression do you hope it casts over the entire book? Does this intention reflect any of your current feelings about our country and its fractured state?
Matthew Baker: The concept for the title story came to me in 2012. At the time, I had recently moved to Ireland; I had never lived in another country before, and the subtle cultural differences between the United States and Ireland illuminated certain characteristics of the United States for me with sudden clarity. At that point I’d already written “Fighting Words” and “Appearance” and “To Be Read Backward” and had been thinking about the possibility of assembling a collection of speculative fiction. And then one night the premise for “Why Visit America” came to me. I didn’t actually write the story until years later, but to me that title seemed like the perfect organizing principle for the collection. I realized that the collection itself could function as a guidebook.
AL: Can you talk a little bit more about this notion of the collection as a “guidebook”?
MB: Each of the stories in the book is set in a different parallel-universe United States. I loved the idea, though, that over the course of the book the stories could form a composite portrait of the real United States: a Through The Looking-Glass reflection of who we are as a country.
AL: Your stories contain many elements that feel perfectly prophetic, as if they came from a more speculative-natured DeLillo. For example, in “Lost Souls,” there’s a worldwide pandemic of infants born without souls (which causes them to die), and right now our world is living through a life-threatening viral pandemic. While writing these stories, how much were you imagining the probability of these fictions becoming reality?
MB: Zero, honestly. I wasn’t trying to write prophetic fiction. Then again, I was born on an election day—maybe that gives me some seer-like ability to peer into the future of the nation.
AL: When you write, what are you searching for? Or another way to put it: from which anxieties, observations, and/or experiences did these stories rise?
MB: For this book, although all of the stories are speculative, I was specifically looking for concepts that would give me a way to write about the social and political systems of the real world. I wanted to examine the fundamental assumptions underlying the structures of American society. Take “Life Sentence,” for example. That story didn’t start with the question, “What would be an interesting way to use a technology that can erase memories?” The story started with the question, “What’s an alternative system of punishment that could be used to replace prisons?”
AL: When I first talked to you about this collection a year ago, you mentioned that one of the “rules” you gave yourself was that you had to name all fifty states somewhere in the book, and (if I remember correctly) you wanted to name them only one time. Are there other easter eggs we should look for or “rules” you worked within for the collection?
MB: Yeah, because the collection is meant to function as a guidebook of sorts, I’d decided that all fifty states needed to be included, and also that each of the stories should be set in a different city or region of the country (although there is some overlap, for instance in that “The Sponsor” begins in Massachusetts but ends in DC and “One Big Happy Family” begins in DC and ends in Florida). But that was only the beginning. I’d also decided that the collection should include as many native species of flora and fauna as possible. As many classic American foods, American sports, American styles of clothing, American genres of music. Every possible landform and weather condition and natural disaster that one can encounter in the continental United States. I had a lot of fun with that detail work. But there are some things I never found a way to include—mountain goats, or chowder, or dodgeball, for example—which haunts me.
AL: It’s immensely clear from the work how much fun you must’ve had creating these stories. When you’re writing, how do you best encourage or create the space for fun to become part of the storytelling process?
MB: It’s not always fun, to be honest. Some days—many days—are just grinding. I’ve found that reading for a while before writing can help spark that playful spirit, though. Like how watching somebody else doing tricks on a skateboard can make you want to hop onto a skateboard and try to do some tricks too.
AL: This collection absolutely demonstrates your love of lists (and I love your lists so much!). Some of them are prodigious in size (“The Tour,” “Lost Souls,” “One Big Happy Family”) while others are small and spare but then accumulate over the course of a single story (“To Be Read Backward,” “Rites,” “Life Sentence”). What is it about lists that excites you?
MB: For better or worse, I think that’s just the way that my brain operates. I love programming languages, and when I first began to code, I was amazed to discover that every programming language has a fundamental data structure—what in many programming languages is called an “array”—whose sole purpose is to store lists of information. I was so excited by that—I felt an immediate affinity—I think because lists are so fundamental to how my brain organizes and processes information about the world around me. I can’t possibly express how much that lists delight me. In prose, I especially love when a list somehow builds to a climax or a sudden subversion of expectations, like a sequence of music notes building to a finale or a sudden change of key.
AL: In many of your stories, the point of view was one step removed from the character that other writers might choose as their storytelling lens. For example, there’s the large cast of POVs (most inhabited only once) in “One Big Happy Family”; yet, even though the detective appears in essentially every scene, we inhabit his POV for only a small part of the story. What is it about these “once-removed” POVs that appeals to you? What do they allow for?
MB: That’s thanks to Gabriel García Márquez. I first read his stories at the age of twenty, and was immediately fascinated by what to me was an entirely new genre of storytelling—not the genre of “magical realism,” although that’s the category that his stories are often assigned to, but instead the genre of the “community spectacle.” Maybe the quintessential example is “A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings.” Initially the most interesting character in that story might seem to be the very old man with enormous wings, and yet it’s not a story about him at all—instead it’s the story of the community in which he suddenly appears, and the various ways that the community reacts to and is changed by the spectacle of his appearance. I noticed García Márquez returning to that narrative formula again and again and again—the story of a community reacting to and being changed by some spectacle—and eventually came to realize that there was something about that setup that was profoundly compelling to me. For Why Visit America in particular, I found that “community spectacle” setup to be the perfect angle for exploring the conflict between individualism and collectivism in the United States, and the self-declared American POV of “We the People.”
AL: Gertrude Stein said that “A sentence isn’t emotional, a paragraph is,” which has intrigued me in terms of a paragraph’s various potentials. Furthermore, I’m always interested in how a writer uses their paragraphs; and I don’t think I’ve read a collection that employs paragraphs to the wild range that your collection does. You have a lot of single-line paragraphs throughout “Life Sentence,” and then you have stories with multi-page paragraphs (“The Tour,” “One Big Happy Family,” “Testimony of Your Majesty”). How exactly do paragraphs function in these stories—do you find any overlap with Stein’s quote? To you, what can a very long paragraph achieve?
MB: Maybe I do have a philosophy similar to Stein’s. I think of storytelling in terms of “units.” To me, a sentence is a unit comparable to a comic book panel and a paragraph is a unit comparable to a comic book page. In comics, as a creator, you want every panel to contain a certain amount of narrative energy, but what’s crucial is the page: you need every page to end on a panel that somehow provokes an emotional response in the reader—curiosity, fear, anger, joy, arousal, whatever—in order to entice the reader to turn to the next page to continue reading. I think about paragraphs like that: a paragraph should have a narrative arc that concludes on a sentence that provokes an emotional response in the reader, propelling the reader into the next paragraph at maximum velocity. And for that sometimes what you need is a small paragraph—even a one-liner, like a comic book splash page with a single image—but sometimes what you need is a long paragraph. There are situations in prose storytelling where that much space is required. When an editor tries to chop up a long paragraph into a bunch of smaller paragraphs simply because of some eldritch publishing superstition—“long paragraphs are bad”—it’s horrifying to me. You can kill a story that way. All of the narrative energy will bleed out through those breaks.
AL: You’ve mentioned programming languages, Gabriel Garćia Marquez, and comic books as meaningful influences on this collection. I’m curious as to what other spheres might have left their impressions here. Are there other writers or texts that, in a sense, gave you the permission to write Why Visit America?
MB: Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale and Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go both had a tremendous influence on the stories in this book, along with Ursula K Le Guin’s The Dispossessed. Honestly, though, maybe the biggest influence was American Short Fiction. Of the thirteen stories in the collection, “To Be Read Backward” was the first to be written, and was the first to be published in a literary magazine. I was at AWP when I got the acceptance email from American Short Fiction—I remember standing there in the middle of the book fair, staring down at the email with a sense of astonishment. I was stunned that a literary journal of that stature would be willing to publish this weird sci-fi story that I’d written—an overtly political speculative fiction that devotes entire pages to conjecture about the nature of the spacetime continuum. I’d thought of the story as an experiment, as a risk, and so the enthusiasm of the editors was profoundly encouraging. Getting to do this interview with you is special to me for that reason. In a sense, American Short Fiction was what first gave me permission to write this book.
Named one of Variety’s “10 Storytellers To Watch,” Matthew Baker is the author of the story collections Why Visit America and Hybrid Creatures and the children’s novel Key Of X, originally published as If You Find This. His stories have appeared in publications such as New York Times Magazine, The Paris Review, American Short Fiction, One Story, Electric Literature, and Conjunctions, and anthologies including Best Of The Net and Best American Science Fiction And Fantasy. Born in the Great Lakes region of the United States, he currently lives in New York City.
Alexander Lumans was awarded a 2018 NEA Grant in Fiction. He also received a fellowship to the 2015 Arctic Circle Residency, and he was the Spring 2014 Philip Roth Resident at Bucknell University. He teaches at University of Colorado Denver and at Lighthouse Writers Workshop. He’s currently at work on a novel set in the Arctic.