From the first sentence of Claire Hopple’s latest novel, Take It Personally, you know you’re in for a ride—in this specific case, you’re sidecar to Tori, who has just been hired by a mysterious and unnamed entity to trail a famous diarist. Famous locally, at least. What sort of locality produces a “famous diarist”? One whose demonym also includes the nearly equally renowned Bruce, made so for his reputation of operating his leaf blower in the nude, of course. And that’s just the beginning. Take It Personally follows Tori as she follows the diarist, Bianca, determined to discover whether her writings are authentic or a work of fiction. At least, until Tori has to go on a national tour with her rock band, Rhonda & the Sandwich Artists, who are, as Tori explains, right at the cusp of fame. It is a novel as fun as it is tender, filled with characters whose absurdity only makes them more sincere.
Claire Hopple is interviewed by E. Ce Miller.
*
FWR: It seems like much of your work begins with absurd premises. The first line of Take It Personally is, “Unbeknownst to everyone, I am hired to follow a famous diarist.” This quality is what first drew me to your fiction, this sort of unabashed absurdity. But then you drop these lines that are absolutely disarmingly hilarious. You’re such a funny writer—do you think of yourself as a funny writer? What are you doing with humor?
CH: Thank you! That is too kind. I’m not sure I think of myself as a funny writer, or even a writer at all––more like possessed to play with words by this inner, unseen force. But I think humor should be about amusing yourself first and foremost. If other people “get it,” then that’s a bonus, and it means you’re automatically friends.
FWR: In Take It Personally, as well as the story we published last year in Four Way Review, “Fall For It”, many of your characters have this grunge-meets-whimsy quality about them. They seem to have a lot of free time in a way that makes me overly aware of how poorly I use my own free time. They meander. They follow what catches their attention. They are often, if not explicitly aimless, driven by impulses and motivations that I think are inexplicable to anyone but them. They seem incredibly present in their immediate surroundings in a way that feels effortless—I don’t know if any of them would actually think of themselves as present in that modern, Western-mindfulness way; they just are. In all these qualities, your characters feel like they’re of another time—unscheduled, unbeholden to technology. Perhaps a recent time, but one that sort of feels gone forever. Am I perceiving this correctly? Can you talk about what you’re doing with these ideas?
CH: I’ve never really thought about them that way, but I think you’re right. And I think my favorite books, movies, and shows all do that. We’re so compelled to fill our time, to make the most use out of every second, and it just drains us. There’s a concept I heard about recreation being re-creation, as in creating something through leisure in such a way that’s healing to your mind. We could all stand to do that more. Hopefully these characters can be models to us. I know I need that. But reading is an act of slowing down and an act of filling our overstimulated brains; it’s somehow both. So maybe it’s just a little bit dangerous in that sense.
FWR: Are you interested in ideas of reliable versus unreliable narrators, and if so, where does Tori fall on that spectrum? She’s a narrator presenting these very specific and sometimes off-the-wall observations in matter-of-fact ways. I’m thinking of moments like when Tori’s waiting for the diarist’s husband to fall in love with her, as though this is an entirely forgone conclusion, or the sort of conspiratorial paranoia she has around the Neighborhood Watch. She also “breaks that fourth wall” by addressing the reader several times throughout the book. What are we to make of her in terms of how much we can trust her presentation of things? What does she make of herself? Does it matter if we can trust Tori—and by trust, I suppose I mean take her literally, although those aren’t really the same at all? Do you want your readers to?
CH: All narrators seem unreliable to me. I don’t think too much about it because humans are flawed. They can’t see everything. For an author to assume that they can, even through third-person narrative, achieve total omniscience in any kind of authentic voice seems a little bit ridiculous. But I’m not saying to avoid the third person, just to not take ourselves too seriously. I hope that readers can find Tori relatable through her skewed perspective. She views the world from angles that give her the confidence to continue existing. They don’t have to be true in order to work, and I think a lot of people are operating from a similar mindset, whether they realize it or not. We can trust her because she’s like us, even––and maybe especially––because she’s not telling the whole truth.
FWR: Take It Personally is a novel I had so much fun inside. I read it in one sitting, and when I was finished, I couldn’t believe I was done hanging out with Tori. From reading your work, it seems you’re having the time of your life. Is writing your fiction as good a time as reading it is?
CH: It means so much to me that you would say that. Seriously, thank you. Yes! Reading and writing should be fun. I’m always confused by writers who complain about writing. If they don’t like it, maybe try another hobby? I secretly love that nobody can make money as a writer in our time because it means writing has to be a passionate compulsion for you in order for you to continue.
FWR: You’re the fiction editor of a literary magazine, XRAY. Does your editing work inform your writing and publishing life? How do you see the role of lit mags in this whole literary ecosystem we’re all trying to exist in?
CH: Lit mags are crucial. They’re some semblance of external validation, which everyone craves. But what we’re doing, whether intentionally or unintentionally, is creating a community. We’re only helping each other and ourselves at the same time.
FWR: It is a strange time to be a writer—or a person, for that matter. (Although, has this ever not been the case?) As we’re holding this interview, parts of the West Coast of the United States are actively burning to the ground. Other parts of the country are or have very recently been without water. I know you directly witnessed the climate disaster of Hurricane Helene last year, which devastated many beloved communities in the mid-Atlantic, including the wonderfully art-filled city of Asheville. How are you making space for your writing in all this? How are you able to hold onto your creativity amid so many other demands competing for time and attention?
CH: Completely agree with you here. Things are a mess. Our climate is barely hanging on. There were several weeks where I couldn’t really read or write at all; the whole thing felt like some ludicrous luxury. I was flushing toilets with buckets of creek water. But now that my head has finally cleared, I’m able to realize their importance again. Great suffering has always produced great art and hopefully points us to a better way of living. It just might take time, recovery, patience, and perspective to develop that. Some of my favorite paintings and books were a direct result of artists’ personal experiences at the bombing of Dresden in WWII. How weird is that? We have to make time for art, but not in some sort of shrewd drill sergeant kind of way. We have to fight for it, make space for it, recognize that it’s just as important as whatever else is on the calendar. Recognize that it’s a form of therapy. And we have to feel so compelled to create that it’s happening whether we even want it to or not.
