Kelsey Norris is a writer and editor from Alabama. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming from Georgia Review, Oxford American, Black Warrior Review, TriQuarterly, and elsewhere. She was a Tin House Summer Workshop 2020 attendee and she’s been supported by The American Academy of Arts and Letters and the Porches writing retreat. She earned an MFA from Vanderbilt University and is currently at work on a story collection. More of her writing can be found at kelseynorris.com. An excerpt from her story “Sentries” can be found here. It appears in the July/Aug 2021 issue of the Kenyon Review.
What was your original impetus for writing “Sentries”?
Though it didn’t end up there, this story began with a prompt to write about the South and health. THE Jesmyn Ward was coming to my grad school’s campus to do a reading, and I would have the chance to read with her and Tiana Clark as long as I had work that fit the bill. Southern food was the gateway to the story for me, and while I didn’t start with it, I knew that the sections about MaBeulah’s suitcases would come into play at some point.
An early draft of this story had not gone over well in workshop, and I was really discouraged—about the story and my place in telling it. But the reading with Jesmyn and Tiana was one of the most affirming events of my writing life. Somehow, it was organized so that I read last, and the audience was teeming with energy by the time I stepped up. No one warms up a room like they do. To go from a poor reception in an all-white workshop to reading at the Black Cultural Center to a majority Black audience alongside two brilliant Black women . . . it sent me right back to “Sentries” for revision with a renewed sense of self-belief.
A key characteristic of your structuring here is the interjection of descriptive, directional phrases—orienting readers with the positioning of the dolls, embedded throughout the story. Right aligned and italicized, the phrases interrupt the flow of the prose to confront readers with the found objects just as they appear—seemingly mimicking the experience of the narrator in her search among the house. What were you hoping to achieve through this dynamic, interactive form—and how did you choose where in the story to implement it?
The simplest answer to that question is that those phrases serve as section breaks. More importantly, I wanted the setting to play a major role in this story—almost like another character. To Esther and her family, the house feels cramped and oppressive until MaBeulah brings the dolls. With them there, the house gains a sense of joy and distraction and mystery. I wanted the family’s home to feel as real to the reader as it does to the characters living inside of it, so that meant zoomed-in details throughout the story—encyclopedias and seafoam hair rollers and popcorn ceilings—as well as the directional breaks to remind you that the game is still afoot even while the story isn’t focusing on it. The dolls are in hidden in basic household places as well as more intimate hiding spots, especially for children who might be learning to keep secrets and hide parts of themselves. Toward the end, the hiding places become more impractical as MaBeulah is losing touch.
Considering that this narrative is heavily steeped in attention to detail that could only be achieved by the perspective of young child, the moments of more mature reflection stand out as a disruption to narrator’s assumed naiveté–especially when she notes, “. . . (W)e’d delayed growing older for the sake of the adults around us, so that they might find their shape in our care, instead of the other way around.” Did you imagine the narrator to be a specific age when crafting her voice—or was the ambiguity in her childish tone an intentional choice?
I’m probably too close to the story to give a clear response here, but I’ll answer by talking about a story I love, Michael Cunningham’s “White Angel.” It’s told from a child’s perspective, is about family and its undoing, and is told from a later point in time than the events of the story. To me, the details in that story fluctuate between the immediacy of childhood and future analysis in a similar way to what you’ve mentioned above. On the wise side, there are lines like, “They are Ohio hip,” about the narrator’s parents, which live in the same story as an earlier scene when the narrator witnesses his brother losing his virginity. That scene is all childhood wonder and surprise. The point of telling in “White Angel” reads as somewhat fluid to me, and I hope that “Sentries” works in a similar vein. That blending can make it easier as a reader to follow’s a child’s perspective through trauma or a heavy, significant event. Kids are often more perceptive than they’re given credit for, so for me, the moments of maturity and immaturity in Esther’s voice are hard to differentiate.
How has your writing changed since you started out?
Lately, I’ve been writing more playful stories. When I started out, I thought that great literary fiction had to be intense and painful, even though many of my favorites—like Karen Russell—were pulling off both: playfulness of subject or concept within deeply emotional stories. At a recent workshop, someone mentioned that writers should play to their strengths, and because I’m a person who cracks constant dad jokes, I thought, Maybe I should write something funny. I’m still going back and forth between more playful stories and more intense ones, and allowing both to be true within the same stories, but I trust myself more to try things out.
Which non-writing-related aspect of your life most influences your writing?
Probably just being in places that are not my house. So, travel to some extent, but also the random encounters and environments that come from leaving what’s familiar are often starting points for my stories. The pandemic has obviously made ranging out into the world for inspiration more complicated. But then there’s memory, which can be even more fruitful because you’ve forgotten enough specifics to make room for fiction. Some writers begin with character, but I have a hard time getting started without a firm grip on setting and a line of prose. I need rhythm and a place to put it, and those two elements inform one another once a story gets going.
What is either the best or the worst piece of writing advice you’ve received or given?
At a time when I was discouraged about publications and “making it” as a writer, Nancy Reisman told me that good writers write. That’s it: that writers with sustained careers are folks who keep after it, regardless of who’s asking them to do so or waiting to praise them. That’s been golden advice for me. Basically, just keep after it and run your race—except a different metaphor because I despise running.
What project(s) are you working on now, or next?
I’m currently working on a story collection, which “Sentries” is part of, that centers around collectives—a family, a town, a village, a support group of traumatized joggers—and the individuals within.