For as long as I’ve been around the indie lit world, Aaron Burch has been a steady source of positive energy and endless creativity. Over the past fifteen(ish) years, he’s been responsible for so much inventive writing—his own, of course, but also the work he’s published at Hobart, HAD, and Short Story, Long—and for building some of the fundamental pillars of the writing community. He’s a writer I’ve long admired because of how much joy he takes in the work, and how infectious that joy has been for those in his orbit.

In his newest book, Tacoma, Burch leans all the way in on these qualities: it’s a book about finding love for writing, about sharing that love with the other artsy weirdos in your life. It is as close as a book can get to distilling the author’s essence directly to the page. Billed as autofiction, Tacoma is rooted in Aaron’s real life, but becomes much weirder, sillier, and more fantastical in ways no reader will expect. And yet, as strange as it gets, it still feels grounded in the writer I have known and respected for so long. Leading up to the publication of the book, I talked to him about joy, community, aging, and influence, among many other things. 

—Tom McAllister

 

Tom McAllister: I want to open with a two-part question that is more about your book Tacoma than it might seem at first. I’m ninety-nine percent sure the first time I met you was at a reading in a weird bar in Denver during AWP in 2010. It was a classic AWP off-site reading, in that there were too many of us on the bill, and one guy read for way, way too long and made everyone mad. I don’t think you and I talked much, but my memory is this: you read a story in first person about a guy who had a roommate with a weird habit of strutting around the apartment in just boxers and suspenders, and the story escalated in this very silly way, and it culminated in you doing this really impressive quick-change thing where you yanked off your shirt, revealing suspenders on bare skin. The crowd went insane. I’m pretty sure Barrelhouse ran a photo of shirtless Burch the next day on their blog. So part one of this question: How much of this do you remember?

Aaron Burch: I remember…kinda all of that! I remember being impressed by your reading, and thinking I wanted to be friends, and that we really didn’t talk much (at all?). I remember the guy who read way, way too long (and it became an oft-repeated story over the last sixteen (!!) years about worst-case AWP reading scenarios). And I remember my own reading (although I wish my memory also included the crowd going insane!).

The previous summer, I’d done a reading tour with a bunch of friends (or, well, mostly people I didn’t yet know , but who, over the course of something like fourteen cities in sixteen days, became [best] friends). The Dollar Store Tour was a part of the Dollar Store Reading Series in Chicago at the time. Organizers would go to their local dollar store and buy a bunch of…stuff, giving an item to each reader with the assignment to write something about/inspired by/in some way obliquely referencing the item. And every reading was supposed to be under five minutes. I was given suspenders, and I wrote that piece that culminated in me ripping my shirt off so that I would be topless but wearing the suspenders underneath, which seemed like a dumb but fun thing to do at a reading?

 

TM: I was so nervous at that reading—it was the first one I’d ever done in my life—so I don’t remember if I talked to anyone. I was just trying not to throw up. Anyway, it’s overtly part of the mission statement of Tacoma to embrace being fun and silly in writing. There’s a thread in which you (or the fictional you) sit down to write the Great American Novel but then are continually sidetracked by writing “dumb, fun stories” that are “earnest and nostalgic and open-hearted.” Your friends reassure you that it’s okay to do that because if the stories are fun, what else do you need? I’m curious how much the idea of fun, play, and silliness has guided your writing and publishing life over the years, how it’s shaped you as a reader/writer, and whether any element of this book is you rediscovering the joy of writing more freely ? 

AB: It’s kinda funny. On the one hand, I’d say the ideas of fun and play and silliness have been the primary guide of my writing and publishing over the years. On the other hand, in the last few years, and especially with Tacoma, I’ve “found” my voice and my lane and maybe become the best version of my (writer-)self, and that has happened by embracing and leaning all the way into fun and play and silliness. But then, on the third hand, you reminded me that sixteen (again: !!) years ago I wrote and read a story that culminated in me taking off my shirt. So this idea that I’ve only in the last few years embraced and leaned into fun and play and silliness is perhaps a delusion?

They are at the core of who I am as a reader and writer, in part because they are so much a part of who I am as a person, but also I came to reading and writing (and editing) kind of as a lark. I didn’t have lofty goals of writing books; I didn’t grow up wanting to be a writer; English classes and “literature” never meant that much to me. I started reading stories for myself, for pleasure, that I thought were fun. Writing my own stories, and starting Hobart, was all a bit of a goof to entertain myself and my friends.

Probably every few years, I do find myself rediscovering and re-embracing all that, and the joy of writing more freely? It can be easy to fall into something of a rhythm, and that rhythm can often mean trying to write a story or essay or novel or whatever how you think you should, but, at least personally, every now and then, I’m like, oh yeah, it can be anything! What would be the most fun thing to happen next? What next sentence or chapter or plot point would make not only myself but also my closest friends laugh the most?

 

TM: I love that, and I feel the same way but I forget it all the time. I appreciate all the work you’ve done because it is a good reminder of what writing can do: it can build community, make your friends laugh, and add a little magic to your small corner of the world. To stay on this topic for a minute: There’s a thread in this book in which Aaron, who is sorta-mostly you, is looking to write the Great American Novel (GAN). He and his partner are house-sitting for the summer and Aaron has this vision of writing this important literary thing, but it keeps turning into silly, weird stories about his friends and loved ones. This question is another two-parter. Part one, which maybe you’ve partly addressed: Has there ever been some part of you that sat down to write a GAN or harbored some notion of doing so, and did it go like in this book where you had this Big, Important Idea, but then the writing went sideways right away? 

AB: I don’t think I’ve ever sat down wanting or trying to write one. And, to be honest, I don’t even really believe in the idea of a “Great American Novel.” I think it’s kinda dumb? But then, contradictorily and simultaneously…of course I’ve (usually secretly, sometimes even from myself) had the dream to do so. I think having that as a goal is dumb. But I also think, if you write novels and haven’t at least harbored the notion, you’re lying.

More specifically though, I haven’t ever had a Big, Important idea, no. But my real life goal for the couple of months I spent in Tacoma was to try to start a new novel. Or write a few short stories. Or work on an essay collection! Instead, these silly, weird little 600-word short-shorts about exaggerated, magical versions of my friends were mostly what kept coming out!

 

TM: Part two of that question: There’s a little riff in the book where you wonder about writing a “Great Washington Novel,” or “Great Pacific Northwest Novel,” or “Great Tacoma Novel”. What are some of the Great Washington and Pacific Northwest novels? What makes something fit those categories? 

AB: I’m not sure! In Tacoma, it’s the narrator’s way of making the goal a little more manageable. A Great American Novel feels impossible to wrap his mind around…but a Great Washington, or Pacific Northwest, or Tacoma Novel might be possible?

Growing up in Tacoma—in general, but especially in the 1990s—meant really feeling like we were in the shadow of Seattle. This band, Seaweed, had a moment. Not as big as Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, etc., or even a band like Sunny Day Real Estate, but they were great, and I thought it was especially cool that they were ours (meaning Tacoma). I went to school with (and had a crush on) the lead singer’s younger sister; their dad was the swim coach at our high school. And in the next little wave of music, there was this hardcore band, Botch, which went to my high school, and the lead singer would start every show by saying, “We’re Botch, we’re from Tacoma.” I liked that sense of hometown pride, and also there was something interesting and cool about being close to, but separate and apart from, the “bigger” thing/scene/etc.

Bringing it back to writing… Raymond Carver was from the Pacific Northwest, though I don’t think he is really thought of in connection to that (or any) place, the way, say, Faulkner is? (Maybe Carver is and my assumption is wrong?) Jesus’ Son is one of my favorite books of all time, and some of it is set in Washington state (with Tacoma getting a little shoutout in one of its short stories, “Happy Hour,” which also has a line about the weather in Seattle that I used as Tacoma’s epigraph), but Denis Johnson is really more Iowa City and California. Sherman Alexie and David Shields come to mind for Seattle authors. Oh! David Guterson used to shop at the Barnes & Noble I worked at in college. Tom Robbins is a PNW guy, but are any of those books set in Washington? I don’t remember. Now I’ve just fallen into that dude trap of just listing names (and just names of dudes, no less). I’m sure I’m forgetting someone obvious (maybe tons of someones!). Two more though.

I read Douglas Coupland’s Microserfs while working at an internet company in the late ’90s. I haven’t reread but my memory is feeling like it really captured that specific phenomena of the late ’90s, tech-y Seattle/Redmond. Maybe even in a “Great” way? 

And Frank Herbert is from Tacoma! Dune Peninsula is one of my favorite places in Tacoma! I never name it in Tacoma, but every time Aaron is at the waterfront, he’s probably running down to and around that peninsula. I don’t think Dune has anything to do with Tacoma, and I’ve never actually read it, but fuck it, let’s call that the Great Tacoma Novel!

 

TM: Since you mentioned Denis Johnson, there’s a very clear DJ influence in Tacoma, beginning with the epigraph from “Happy Hour.” I felt it throughout the book, especially in the moments where you launch from a quiet, mundane activity (going for a walk, going to happy hour) into these big, poetic crescendos. The end of the first chapter: “This is a story about magic and beauty and wonder,” felt Denis Johnson-y right away. The “mountains like white knives.” The general big-heartedness juxtaposed with some melancholy. Some Jim Harrison influence too? My question is: What do you think about all that? 

AB: I love all that. The “very clear DJ influence” sounds and feels—and surely just is—right. That said, I wonder if someone who doesn’t know me might notice or think that? The influence is very much there, but I think the book feels pretty different from Jesus’ Son. This is often my favorite kind of influence, where it is very strong but then very much incorporated into the author’s own thing. I think there’s a certain kind of voice and narrative that feels very DJ influenced, but I don’t think it is usually the “quiet, mundane activity…into these big, poetic crescendos” or “general big-heartedness juxtaposed with some melancholy.” But I love both of those as both what you’re seeing as his influence but also just as descriptors of Tacoma on its own!

 

TM: Related to the sense of magic I mentioned: This book gets weird as hell about halfway through. Narnia-type closets for time travel, judgmental magical deer, using a magic erase marker to transcribe the rain into words, etc. What’s your thought process on writing/planning this kind of weirdness? Is it just following instincts during the first draft and trying something out, or are you thinking at the start, “About halfway through, I need to ramp up the weirdness” and planning it more meticulously?

AB: I love the “weird as hell” description too! It is definitely part of what I wanted to do with the book, but a lot of my influences—in general, but probably on Tacoma especially—are often much weirder than can be my go-to tendency, and I wanted to try to really push on that lever with this. 

So, I guess on the one hand, it was a kind of conscious thought, or an urging myself forward—weirder, sillier, more speculative!—but also was just following instincts and trying things, and I wouldn’t say it was ever “planned.” I was often trying to lean into the moment, ramping things up where it felt natural, which led to weirdness feeling more and more natural as the book progresses, so then the ramping up gets ramped up. 

 

TM: One of my favorite passages in the book comes very late, after a sort of time travel thing has occurred, and Aaron is young again: “I thought about trying to make myself like running, but then I remembered that part of what I loved about running in my forties was that was new to my forties, so I went back to hating running, just like I had the first time through.” I feel like this is a bit of a middle age book, not just because of your age, but because of the sensibility of it—there’s a lot of reframing of youth, revisiting milestones, and reflecting on one’s values in their forties. How much of that was conscious versus just a reflection of your thinking these days? 

AB: I keep saying this, but I love this observation and response. Part of what I was excited (and curious) about for you to read the book is I think it is weirder and sillier than your tastes (though maybe my assumption is wrong), but a lot of that weirdness and silliness is in tandem with, as you note, “a lot of reframing of youth, revisiting milestones, and reflecting on one’s values in their forties,” that I think puts the book into conversation with your own It All Felt Impossible in interesting ways. 

I don’t think any of this was conscious. Inevitably anything I write is going to be what I’m thinking about and wrestling with. That said, I think it was an especially fun aspect of the autofiction-ness of it. I’ve written a lot of personal essays in the last five to ten years, and I think all that definitely had an effect on this project. And in real life, spending two months in my mid-forties back in this city where I grew up around friends and family that I moved away from twenty-plus years ago (bookended by drives across the country back and forth with childhood friends), inevitably had me thinking about youth and milestones and what it means to grow up and get older and all that. But then Tacoma became a fun, interesting way of looking at all that more sideways and from different angles. Instead of a personal essay of mid-forties-Aaron looking in the mirror and seeing teenage-Aaron, what if a magical deer calls him out on being a bit nostalgia obsessed? What if there were a time-traveling-tunnel in the back of the Spencer Gifts in the mall of his youth that literally took him back to his youth?

 

TM: Last question: A big part of this book is Aaron celebrating the writing of his friends—Bud Smith, Dave Housley, Kevin Maloney, D.T. Robbins, others. One of the things I’ve always admired about you is the joy you take in building community with other artists, first with Hobart, now with HAD and Short Story, Long. How important has that community been to your development as an artist, and what advice would you give to younger writers looking to follow your lead? 

AB: Like a version of a lot of the above, I don’t think it ever happened intentionally, but the community around writing has been incredibly important (and fun, and supportive, and encouraging) to me from the beginning. I’ve met so many of my friends through this writing life! It’s how I met my first wife! I went to Kevin’s wedding earlier this year. Between AWP and WriterCamp (and the rare but occasional other meetup), I probably see Dave more than almost any other friend who doesn’t live in my town. He is in one of my most lively groupchats, and one of the others is with Kevin and D.T. Writing can be so solitary, by its very nature, but I think it is also so communal. Or at least it has been for me. Reading others, having others read me, talking with friends about common reads…that all feels like it feeds and fuels me as much as the actual writing itself.

The advice I’d give, for those interested in doing so (I don’t think it is required, and I don’t think anyone should feel like they have to, if this isn’t what you’re interested in), would be to try to reach out to the community you find interesting and that you and your work feel in conversation with. By nature, many writers are introverted and feel awkward putting themselves out there…but so many writers I think often appreciate this shared moment of crossing the awkwardness bridge together. Reach out and let writers know when a piece they’ve written means something to you. Try to let yourself become something of a fanboy (nongendered) for writers you admire. Review stuff you love, on Goodreads or your own blog or for review sites or anywhere. Ask writers if you could interview them. Volunteer to read for a journal. Start a journal! And also buy a ton of copies of Tacoma and give them to all your friends. 🙂 

 

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TOM McALLISTER is the author of four books, most recently the essay collection It All Felt Impossible. He is the director of the MFA Program at Rutgers-Camden. 

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AARON BURCH is the author of Tacoma, as well as the essay collection, A Kind of In-Between, and a novel, Year of the Buffalo, among others. He edits the literary journals Short Story, Long and HAD.