Chris Okum is a person. He’s not the person in the picture or the person in his stories. Chris Okum is also a writer—a good writer. From one Chris to another Chris, welcome once again to Metazen, Chris. Names are so important. We could call ourselves Samuel and John, but that would be confusing. How about Allen and Okum?
Allen: Am I right in seeing that your stories have a similar form and style? How important is form to you?
Okum: I don’t really understand the storytelling form. That’s part of the reason I like to write. Because I want to figure out how it works, or what works for me. All I know is that it feels like I’m trying to do different voices, but they all end up sounding the same. Or maybe not exactly the same, because that would imply that I have a singular voice, and I don’t, not yet. I hope I will some day. But that’s what we all want, right?
Allen: I don’t think your voices sound the same. You channel an incredibly wide range of characters, but they all inhabit a fast and furious form. You might see this as formlessness, but I see it as a brief—yet massive—story space noisy with your characters’ voices.
Okum: Oh, I like that. I’m going to use that. The next time I re-read one of my stories and I don’t get it I’m going to tell myself what you just said. That will make me feel better. And if it doesn’t, I’ll go and throw something at my mom. That usually makes me feel better, too.
Allen: Excellent plan (I have a mother too, so I know). Preparing for this interview, I Googled you, found you on LinkedIn, followed you at Red Lemonade and such, but when it comes down to it, you haven’t told the world very much about yourself. Do we know enough about Chris Okum?
Okum: I’m a very anti-social person. But I am quiet. I know that. I’ve been told that by people I’m close with, and most of them made it sound like it was a negative attribute. My writing can be a little loud, though. I will be the first to admit that. My first draft is always very shrill. To me, re-writing is just trying to figure out a way to make it less shrill. Plus, I’m old-fashioned. Fiction writers should let the work speak for itself. Of course, there’s always the possibilty that the work has nothing to say, and if that’s the case, well, then, that’s fine too. Sometimes I have nothing to say, but I want to say it anyway.
Allen: I think a character who has nothing to say can be compelling if he says it the right way or if I already like him or hate him. In absurdist literature and drama, the best characters think they have nothing to say. And nothing to learn. Do you think about what your characters need, want or want to learn? Is this part of your process?
Okum: All I know is that the characters want to keep talking. That’s their main concern. Everything they say is in service of that. But they don’t seem very interested in learning anything they don’t already know. And what they probably need more than anything is to shut up and listen.
Allen: Yes! If only people would shut up and listen more. Fine fine point. OK, there’s a book at Barnes&Nobels.com called Seriously Bad Baby Names: The Handy Guide That Will Keep You from Ruining Your Child’s Life Forever. The author is Chris Okum, and it’s not like your name is Mike Smith, right? So are you the author of this book?
Okum: Yes. That’s my book. A friend of mine was working at a company that manufactures novelty items, and they were interested in publishing a book about names you shouldn’t name your baby, and they asked me if I would submit some entries, so I did, and then I ended up writing all of the entries, two for every letter of the alphabet. The idea that I wrote a book someone could read in one sitting while on the toilet makes me very happy. The only problem is that I think the seven people who ended up buying the book were expecting something different, something that wasn’t fiction. Most people, in general, don’t seem to like fiction. At least, most people I know. And for sure the seven people who bought that book.
Allen: How content are you with the name Chris? I wanted to be a John for a long time (until I learned the other things a John could be), but now I’m fine with Chris myself—although for writing purposes I’ve turned myself into a Christopher.
Okum: I don’t mind the name Chris. It’s ambiguous, but not too ambiguous. I wouldn’t mind having a more masculine name, though. Like Samuel. Samuel Walker. That sounds like a very masculine name, a name you could really take seriously.
Allen: Can I call you Sammy?
Okum: I guess. I would prefer Sam. Names that end in “y” bother me. They’re very jovial names, but they’re usually attached to people who come across as jovial but who really aren’t once you get to know them. I once knew a Sammy. He was a friend of my Grandmother’s. I sat next to Sammy one night at dinner (Mama Gina’s, Palm Desert, CA, 760-568-9898). Sammy’s wife had recently died. I didn’t know what else to talk about. So I asked Sammy if he missed his wife, which I know, it’s a stupid question, and Sammy said, Let me tell you about my wife. She was cheap, is what he said. Then he went back to eating his rigatoni and we didn’t talk about his wife anymore.
Allen: How incredibly uncomfortable. And inappropriately honest. Sammy sounds like one of your characters. I seldom read prose that draws me in as yours does. When you write, are you mindful of a reader who needs to be drawn in?
Okum: All I know is that I don’t want to bore anyone, and that includes myself, and my wife, Jennifer, who’s my only reader. But I like fiction to have a sense of movement. I like short blocks of information. I like moments. I want to pile one moment on top of another until they all start to resemble something like a story. Some people use plot as a way to pace themselves, but I don’t like plot. I think it’s inhibiting. I like it short and I like it fast and then I like it to end. I don’t believe in extending the moment just because you can, or because it might feel necessary. Things start and then they stop. That’s been my experience. People are there and then they aren’t.
Allen: I’m so glad you used the word block. I once described a story of yours as a tree trunk of a story. I find piling “one moment on top of another until they all start to resemble something like a story” the best description of what you do so far. I hesitate to use the term stream of consciousness when it comes to your stories because to me this term seems rather limited to the writer’s thoughts, whereas your stories seem to happen in your characters’ minds. Would you use stream of consciousness to describe your work?
Okum: I would, but I would immediately wince after saying it, and become very apologetic, because it sounds so self-indulgent. Like a twenty-minute guitar solo. I mean, I know what you’re talking about, and I agree with you, but hearing it out loud in my head makes me kind of itchy, because I don’t want to be self-indulgent, even though I know I am. Or maybe I just don’t want people to think that I’m self-indulgent. Or if they do, that’s fine, I’ll cop to it. But at least my indulgence comes in spurts, you know? By the time you notice I’m wanking, the wanking is almost done. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?
Allen: I think I know wanking self-indulgence when I read it, and I don’t see it in your stories. Is it because you’ve found a way to let your characters be self-indulgent for you?
Okum: Yes. They’re very self-indulgent characters. Sometimes I like it and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I want to punish them for being so self-indulgent. But I usually end up punishing characters who have nothing to do with the general air of self-indulgence that pollutes my stories. Because I can’t punish the ones who need to be punished. Without them I’m nothing.
Allen: Ha, your characters should be thankful. Without you, they’re nothing. Thanks for taking the time to chat with me, Chris. I’m heading over to the main Metazen site right now to ride the roller coaster of “Norman Mailer’s Keynote Address, 1979, SUNY, Albany, Empire State Plaza, Attendance: 125,000+” again.
