Bill Cook lives in the southern California high desert where he operates a home remodeling and building company. You can read his fiction in such publications as Tin Parachute Postcard Review, Thieves Jargon, Juked, and Verbsap, among other places.

You’re currently working on two short stories, “Girl Alone,” and “The Smell of Duane.” In both pieces, you write from a female’s perspective. Tell us a bit about both stories, and the challenges involved in writing from this POV.

“The Smell of Duane” is about two sisters in their late teens and early twenties who live in a run down trailer on the outskirts of some rural township. They inherited the trailer, plus everything that goes with it, from their mother who has recently passed. No Father figure to speak of, except maybe Duane who’s dead now. And one of them—the younger of the two sisters, Janey the protag, shot him the night before. Basically, the story takes place during the course of the day after the shooting in which Duane their surrogate replacement-father-figure is laying half buried in the snow, out behind the old outhouse cold as stone. I guess you could say the accidental killing of Duane is more of a metaphor of the sisters’ internal angst and sense of betrayal of their own father abandoning them, and seeing their mother as having done the same by her recent death. It’s a story filled with the usual host of characters—the derelict male lover, Swivel, whose derelict father is dead. Duane, the father who isn’t and who never wanted to be. Just wanted his booze, his easy, unresponsive life to live. Then you have the two sisters sparring it out, having to deal with their raging buried emotions, the deafening silence that separates them, scowls and insinuations, and then the finale of who’s gonna walk out of this thing alive—the younger protag, Janey, or the older, wiser, tougher sister Raygienne—”‘Poumn poumn. Pop goes the weasel, mother f….’ She horse laughs. And suddenly, I’m up yanking Raygienne’s chair from under her,—the rage of ages has grabbed hold of me—have the gun in-hand, and before I know it…” Then there’s also the backdrop of recollections of Janey’s recently passed mother that she has to contend with.

I guess you could say I’m drawn to the whole theme of empowerment and how some women, those in precarious, teetering on the edge of the abyss circumstances, seem to approach it, deal with it—whether going to school, or waitressing, slaving away with a slug of no-good nothing husband at home, or out stranded in some run down shack foraging out whatever kind of existence she can. People who have their stuff together can be boring to write about.

“Girl Alone” is a bit tougher piece and in some ways a more mature piece of fiction for me. It is the piece I am currently working on. It is about a teenage girl who lives on a small farm out in the country with her intact, traditional, 1960’s nuclear family. She has been molested by one of her uncles. And no one seems to care or have taken much notice to her plight. Hey it’s the sixties, molestation was barely even a word thought, let alone something someone would say in public or discuss or complain about. It is a very internal piece/POV. Hence, the title, “Girl Alone”. The protag is alone in this piece in most scenes with her thoughts and observations, even when she’s amongst her relatives and her parents. There’s a household of characters, uncles, an aunt, a mother and a father—no siblings or cousins.

The challenges of writing from a female POV? The answer has to reveal itself to me. Most of the time that takes its own course, and at its own leisure. But I’ll give it a shot.

I’m stumped. I just find the (writing) zone by letting myself feel the character and the geography of the place she inhabits. It doesn’t ever feel strange though, just different. And sometimes when I reread something after its set dormant for a while, I’ll think ‘Did I write that? Wow, what a trip. How’d I get there?’

God, I wish I was better at this. I suppose the best way for me is to let the character speak. Let the character inhabit me to some degree or maybe it’s me inhabiting her in this case. Finding the excitement, the terror, the loneliness that is the female character, that makes her who she is. Writing is a blast, and very revealing in the strangest of ways. You can’t be judgmental. Just do it, let it flow.

“My Dentist Hates Me!,” which was published by Thieves Jargon, has been called erotic, and I have to agree. It does have that vibe. You don’t see it that way, however. Give us your perspective on the piece.

Funny it being called erotic. The first time I realized it was erotic in nature was when I was at one of our two local bars, taverns if you will, and the barmaid read it out loud right there as I sat and had a nice, cold ale. And with her turning red and blushing, I had to ask—because—besides the fact that I was feeling jazzed having had one of my pieces read aloud—I thought it was a funny, sad and redeeming piece—but not erotic. The idea or should I say spawning experience for this piece was from a very recent and actual dentist appointment which wasn’t quite as bad as the story, but still. After, my dentist appointment I stopped off at a local sushi bar and picked-up a couple of sushi rolls, and as I was driving home, I felt a bit irritated by my recent dental visit—a cavity I wasn’t expecting to have or get drilled. So, anyway the embryo of a story had formed inside my gnawing brain, and the whole time that I’m writing “My Dentist Hates Me!” I’m cracking up. So hearing that it is erotic is sort of funny to me. Probably some hidden sexual deviation I should get therapy for. Hah!

In a nutshell: that piece was totally self-indulgence and self-entertainment.

And now for the dreaded question: Do you have any plans for a novel?

Hah! I was just pondering that very question. “Bill. Do you have it in you to write a novel?” Honestly, I’m not sure if I want to write something of that length. Hard to say until I try I suppose, or the inclination strikes me. As for what I read? It’s short stories and non-fiction all the way. Haven’t read a Novel since Immortality by Milan Kundera. This by the way, was a total mind contracting, and expanding experience. His sense of both the mental and motional geography in relation to myriad of shifts he does within this one novel is well…mind-blowing.

Why do you think writer’s dread that question? Does writing a novel impart a sense of legitimacy to calling oneself a writer?

Dread? Because it demands a level of commitment that will ultimately lead to failure on some level? Or maybe it’s like climbing Mount Everest. And who in their right mind wants to be that exhausted when you can kick back and find something easier to tackle, something less demanding. Does writing a novel impart a sense of legitimacy? In my mind no. But then not everyone can be an Alice Munro or William Trevor or an Annie Proulx or an Amy Hempel and strike it rich writing short stories. Or at least make a decent living so you can retire one day if you need to. Which might sound a bit too pragmatic—but hey I have a twenty-three-year-old son who I am very proud of and I’m halfway (two-thirds is what I keep telling myself) through my working life and I’ve done the vagabond trip, not working, scraping by, counting pennies for the next days meal. But that’s information and depth of feeling I can draw from when I write a novel, if I ever need to. Or like Alice Munro who’s been writing the same story for fifty-odd-years some people say, revealing at each stage of her life a different view or textural quality to what a story can reveal, and still stay fresh. Or maybe my britches are already getting too big for my own good, and I should stick with Flash. Who knows, that’s what so refreshing about writing. Freedom.

What is the best metaphor you’ve ever read, heard, and/or written?

I haven’t written it yet. I love when I read metaphor that just nails it, that is entangled within the story and if the writer was to take it out or alter it, it would actually affect the emotional content of the piece.

Off the top of my head, I have to say a wicked short-short by Annie Proulx’ from her collection Close Range called “55 Miles to The Gas Pump” I believe. “…before he hits he rises again to the top of the cliff like a cork in a bucket of milk.” I can see that metaphor, taste it, feel the texture of it as I watch the murderous rancher crest the hilltop.

You run a remodeling and homebuilding company. Which do you prefer—remodeling or building? Why? Do you have a favorite property so far?

I’d have to say, if I had to make a choice, it would be homebuilding over remodeling. Customers can be difficult! And usually remodels are more in your face when it comes to relating with the client, and they usually have to live and operate amongst all the construction debris, the foot traffic, the noise, and so on. It can be tasking at times for both the contractor and homeowner. And plus I like the freedom I get when building a home unencumbered for the most part by the homeowner, which I crave constantly. Fewer decisions, and adjustments, and accommodations for the most part. And writing is what affords me freedom, not financially of course, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually at some level I am sure. I don’t question it, but accept it—love it, relish in it.

My favorite project, the one I am most proud of? Hands-down, it would have to be my folk’s retirement home I designed and built eleven years ago.



Does the construction business work itself into your writing?

Yes, at times. My second published piece “Old Men and Their Things” which was published in Skive in 2005 was a home remodeling project inspired piece. The idea for this piece came from a mild banter that erupted between my partner and me over who had the better hammer tacker (a hammer tacker is a type of stapler). Like who’s jammed the least and sunk the staple the fastest and flattest, would be the winner. And there you have it–a cute little play on virility via the hammer tacker where there are two retired geriatric carpenters arguing about which one has the better tool—and it isn’t the hammer tacker they’re referring to. And there was a pesky squirrel and a tough-ole farmers-wife baking, and directing traffic, gunning for the squirrel.

How did you get into writing? Can you compare it at all with building a house?

When I was a kid, and on into high school I attempted to write. Mainly poetry type stuff; nothing worth saving though. It wasn’t until the mid nineties that I became inspired to expand my writing. This occurred when I read Milan Kundera’s masterpiece The Unbearable Being of Lightness and Shipping News by Annie Proulx. I love Quoyle (the main character from Shipping News) that big loaf and all that goes with him. What I really enjoyed about this novel was the physicality of it, the sense of place; of the loneliness which for me was a cold, long winter when I read it, and I had recently started building my own house and well, I guess it just fit at the time, I identified with his situation at some level.

When writing, I get very wrapped up at times, the physical-ness of the characters, of the scenery and how they relate to it and how it relates to them and how their lives are lived out. Of how they smell, the clothes they wear, their mannerisms, their hair style, what character trait or what unsaid thing is being conveyed. Maybe it’s where I live or when and how I grew up, but it seems to me there was more of a grounding to the weight of the world, more rooting of people to where they lived and who occupied their lives. And, I’m also a voracious people watcher. Then aren’t all writers? So, at the level of participating in physical work (construction) or overseeing a physical environment almost everyday, I guess you could say it informs my writing both directly and indirectly, sometimes in a very tactile way.

Tell us about where you live, and the animals you live with.

I live in southern California—but not the Southern California most people would conjure up. We get snow, and some years down right cold. Five below one year, icicles hanging from the eaves—in Southern California. It is an odd place, both rural and semi-rural/semi development from gulf course to small ranches, tarpaper shacks to luxury homes. It’s tucked away in a loose collection of shallow valleys which run about twenty-five miles in length and one to ten miles at its widest and there are maybe ten-thousand people living here. Got to love it. At home we have one people-picky cat left. Our dog—Omaha—we had to put down recently. He was an amazing animal, nearly human, great personality, and eyes that would soften the hardest of hearts. He’s in my piece “Sanchez Time.” Loved that animal. And for the wilder creatures, we have deer, bobcat, bear, mountain lions, rattlesnakes, coyotes, a wonderful assortment of raptors (hawks and the like), herons, egrets, ducks, geese, where do you stop…Horses and a few cattle. Still the occasional alfalfa field and a few local boutique vineyards, loads of great people and things to write about if I wanted but most of the farmland has been plowed and built on or vacated do to a lack of water—houses need water… That reminds me, a couple of weeks back we were out at this cabin project and the owner’s horse ended-up chasing off a black bear rummaging around some old trash—hey when you’re miles down a dirt road that is miles in itself from anything resembling modern civilization, trash has to wait until you head to town— and a little later we got to watch five Blacktail deer gather and drink from the horse’s upper-field trough. Very cool.

What is your favorite time of the year, and why?

Fall when it cools off, the change in the scenery, the cloud formations, the cooler nights, the sense of impending change, of the slowing down that is coming with the season; it’s a time to pull back from the outside world and heal and reconnect with a part of the world and yourself that has been out there, drudging along, having a blast, playing and participating. I’ve always had a deep need for down time. A time for solitude. As close as my life affords me. And I am very blessed when it comes to that.