On Writing: An Interview, Part I
Agnès Madrigal, interviewed by Jules X
Agnes Madrigal is a writer of works of fiction. She has been interviewed about three of her novels in this series: Messiah, Springtime, and Jess. I was interested to learn more about her views on writing in general, so I asked her to meet me at the Ritual coffee shop in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. As we sipped decadent café mochas inside the brightly lit space, Agnès told me a bit about why she writes and her philosophy regarding a writer’s life. Here are just some of the interesting pieces from our conversation. More parts of these discussions will be forthcoming in Madrigalia’s Interviews series. JX
Jules X: We’ve interviewed you about your novels for Madrigalia. Today, I’m intrigued to learn more about your approach to writing generally. Why do you write?
Agnès Madrigal: Ah, well that’s a very big question! [Smiles.] I have always written, since I was a child, almost as soon as I could hold a pen or pencil and make words. It’s not just something that I do, I believe it’s something that I am. Perhaps this is hopelessly sentimental to say, but . . . when I first encountered Rainer Maria Rilke’s book Letters to a Young Poet in my adolescence, I was struck—and retained from that moment on—Rilke’s question that all aspiring writers ought ask themselves: “Must I write?” Like every bonafide writer, I suppose, I felt my affirmation resound throughout my body, vibrating in an almost visceral way, against my ribs, at my heart. It was astonishing to have such a profound reaction to such a seemingly quite simple question. I did not post the question on a piece of paper on my writing desk or anything like that, but I may as well have. I probably think of that question every day. I think of it when I sit down to write, fresh with inspiration; I think of it when I struggle to write, especially when I struggle deeply with the muse.
“‘Must I write?’ Rilke asks. . . . I did not post the question on a piece of paper my writing desk or anything like that, but I may as well have. I probably think of that question every day. I think of it when I sit down to write, fresh with inspiration; I think of it when I struggle to write.”
—Agnès Madrigal
However, that really only responds to the question of why must I write, and does not really address why I write, which is related, but also completely different. Again, I would return to Rilke’s Letters. When I first read this work, the idea of bearing witness to one’s own life also underlined something within me, something that felt very intrinsic, very tightly braided to the art of writing. People write for many reasons—to keep busy, to tell a particular story, to be paid—all rationale reasons, most certainly. For myself, I have always believed writing to be a sacred act wherein one does explore their existence, their questions, in whatever literary manner one chooses. It can be done in a raw diaristic way, which I do sometimes privately to work through a problem or develop a new idea, or it can be filtered through the genre of fiction, through various characters that take on certain attributes—and this is what I do more commonly. I like to create characters and tableaus from my imagination to examine and turn over various concepts and themes.
The writer confronts herself every time she writes. It is inevitable, inescapable, excruciating, and beautiful. Photograph by Seregam
JX: You are clearly a writer of fiction, not a writer of non-fiction. Why do you think you chose fiction over non-fiction?
AM: I don’t know that I ever chose. My earliest writings were stories, stories of other people—at that time, other kids, as myself. I always connected to the idea of ascribing others with attributes and then certain conflicts to resolve for those persons, with those traits. These “others” were possibly like me at times, but usually distinctively different. I cannot really say why I needed these characters, why the characters never align with myself exactly, or why the alignments are usually weak at best. I might only suggest that my own life seems dull in its mere recounting, and that other characters could, in comparison, take on personalities and events that I could not, and in so doing added a twist that I found—and still find—provocative as a writer.
JX: That makes me think of your character Kate and the “Kate stories.” You’ve said, in reference to these writings, that for a long time Kate was a non-character, rather a narrator, a witness—even, perhaps, a surrogate for yourself.
AM: Yes, I like working in the first person, and sometimes when my narrator (usually not omniscient) needed a name, her name was Kate. Kate is often without many qualities unto herself, and usually simply relates the events taking place around her, as a reporter or writer might. However, as Kate appears in more stories, one begins to recognize her. Her quality becomes this witness of sorts, someone whose own nature is repressed for the most part, or at least somewhat muted in these tales. That’s the writer, too, I think.
“I cannot really say why I needed [my] characters, why the characters never align with myself exactly, or why the alignments are usually weak at best. I might only suggest that my own life seems dull in its mere recounting, and that other characters, in comparison, could take on personalities and events that I could not, and in so doing added a twist that I found—and still find—provocative as a writer.”
—Agnès Madrigal
JX: Your three novels are written in the first person, but with characters who are much more defined. What can you say about this?
AM: Well, when one takes on the great task of writing a story of several thousand words, it’s difficult—though not impossible—to be complacent about the narrator. Kate, who exists in short stories, can serve fairly easily as a lens by which to see the other characters. However, in a lengthier work, such a seemingly selfless character can be wasted. Eventually she (or in the case of Messiah, he) needs to integrate with the other characters, fight with them, love them, engage with them to become an integral part of the storyline.
I think that my character Agathe (in Springtime) is the quietest of these narrators. She imparts the events of the novel, but often she explains herself through others, especially her mother, who is one of the book’s more colorful characters. I like this novel in the way Agathe evolves within it, discovering herself as the pages turn. It is, in many ways, a coming-of-age story, so it makes sense to me that she would regard herself in this way, would grow. Returning to the notion of the witness, and without giving away any details of the novel’s conclusion, Agathe does, at one point near the ending, refer to herself as a witness—as she does in the book’s beginning. This happened rather convulsively while I was writing the final pages, and it felt appropriate. Agathe, as the story attests, is a budding writer, so it is reasonable to assume that she is also a witness. In this way, and perhaps in few others, she resembles the other writer, the real writer, if you will, this writer: Agnès Madrigal.
“[Regarding] the notion of the witness . . . Agathe does, at one point near the ending [of Springtime], refer to herself as a witness. . . . This happened rather convulsively while I was writing the final pages, and it felt appropriate. Agathe, as the story attests, is a budding writer, so it is reasonable to assume that she is also a witness. In this way, and perhaps in few others, she resembles the other writer, the real writer, if you will, this writer: Agnès Madrigal.”
—Agnès Madrigal
JX: The character of Viola (in Jess) is also a writer of sorts. How is she different from Agathe?
AM: Viola is very different! [Laughs.] Viola is a woman near the age of forty, a fully grown adult, a school teacher. Agathe is still a child really—which is part of what I think makes the book a bit haunting—she is just sixteen, she is someone who likely would have been chided by a teacher like Viola. But regarding the narrative voice, the voice of the writer, Viola knows who she is, or she thinks she does. She declares this very boldly in the first paragraphs of Jess. Agathe, in contrast, doesn’t know who she is, and the story is her fumbling to figure this out—often, I must add, amid characters who are not particularly helpful to her in such a journey.
Agathe wants to be a writer, with all the romantic underpinnings of such a quest; she is at times adrift, melancholy, certainly dreamy. Viola, who teaches English literature, is recounting her daily experiences and feelings in her journal, which turn out to be the story that unspools in Jess. They are two completely different approaches to being what one might call a “writer.” As such an entity [laughing], I relate more to Agathe, to her passion, her pathos. But giving Viola this desire “to write some things down” enabled her to serve as a responsible and seemingly reliable first-person narrator for that story.
JX: So, in a way, you have just illustrated, by your answer, the way that you, as an author, might appear (or not) in a story. The urge to write, so deeply associated with the character of Agathe, is also a part of your own self?
AM: Yes, I suppose that is true, and, in that story (Springtime), it is where I am probably revealed the most. In Jess, I think I appear in a secondary character, rather than in Viola or Jess—and, thus, am not responsible for the narration at all. But that, perhaps, is another discussion for another day!
“On Writing” is the first in a short series in Interviews. Read more on Madrigalia.