Today's guest post comes from Josh Riebock. Josh lives
in Austin, TX with his wife, Kristen, and his dog, Ditka. He’s an author and a
fan of all things 80s. He sometimes tells the truth. And he once got a really
bad tattoo. For more information, visit: www.joshriebock.com
Put your ear to my chest,
listen closely, and you’ll hear a crowd of voices inside me—some of them loud,
and some of them tender. Some of them brave, and some of them fugitives. Some
of them skeptical—angry even—and some of them innocent. Some of them voices
that I discuss publicly, and others that I bury deep in the closet behind the
bones of my other skeletons— I’m not crazy. I’m just not as symmetrical as I’d
like to be. This reality birthed the idea for my most recent book, Heroes
and Monsters. My name is Josh Riebock and today, in this guest post, one of
the voices inside me is going to interview me about this new book…
So, Josh, let’s start with this
question: why in the world did you write this stupid, stupid book?
It’s not stupid. Actually, I’m
really proud of it, and a big part of the reason why is because I wrote it for
me. Instead of trying to write a book that I thought other people would want to
read, I just tried to write the kind of book that I’d want to read. An artist
can spend all of their energy, talent, and ideas trying to guess what kind of
stories and art that others will like, or they can simply create the kind of
story and art that resonates with them, inspires them, the kind of work that
they are passionate about. That’s what I tried to do. And what came out was an
illustrated memoir mixed with intentional fiction, an honest, partially
experimental, kind of weird, genre-bending story. And well, I’m proud of it.
Whatever. So with that in mind,
how much did you worry about this book bombing? Remember how I warned you that
it might bomb? I kept saying, “Josh, this is a huge mistake, colossal. Just be
normal. Why can’t you be normal? Huh? Just do what people expect, or you’ll
regret it. If you write it the way you want to, it’s going to fail.” Remember
how I said that?
Yes. I remember how often you
warned me. Over and over—
As you were writing it I kept
envisioning someone making a paper airplane that they are convinced is really
aerodynamic—a technological breakthrough!—only to have it plunge straight into
the ground once they throw it. Crash and burn. I mean, didn’t you worry that no
one else would resonate with this thing that resonates with you?
Sure. I worried about it
plenty. I think most people fear that others won’t share his or her passions,
fear that our heart beats for something that no one else cares about. That’s
what being alone is.
You feel alone a lot don’t you.
…
I know you do.
…
Of course you feel lonely.
I suppose I do. Every artist,
every person, is destined for frequent bouts of loneliness. But I inflict a
fair amount of that on myself. I’m an introvert, so I wander through my own
imagination a lot, spend loads of time alone—reading, thinking, movies,
whatever—and all of that is good. But sometimes I do it to the point of
isolation. Lots of folks do. Humans are really good at building inanimate
community: a tight circle of songs and films and trophies and possessions and
ideas that we can relate to. We connect deeply with authors and musicians and
business leaders, athletes, historical figures, those far away people who share
our passions, but we may struggle to connect in a similarly meaningful way with
those we can actually touch. Sometimes I work harder to connect with an author
I’m reading than a friend or my wife. I’ll watch a movie with my phone in my
pocket, silenced, but check my phone repeatedly when I’m with a group of
people. I’ll engage significant ideas and emotions in a book, but not in a
conversation. I’ll concentrate while I’m writing, but then let my attention
drift when someone is talking to me…
Is there a point in there? Or
are you just doing your typical rambling on and on and on thing?
I’m just saying that, chances
are, there are people near me who share my passions, but because I’m sometimes
so invested in my inanimate community, I never find out. So I feel alone, even
though I’m not. In that way, my loneliness is often an illusion. A very
lifelike illusion.
“Illusion”. You like that word
don’t you?
Yes.
Any other favorite words?
Man, I’ve got lots of favorites
right now. Ragged. Caloric. Fish. I could go on and on. In
general, I have a strong love for words. I believe in their power. That’s why
the writing process matters so much to me. I don’t just care about what I’m
saying, but also about how I’m saying it. Word choice. Sentence structure.
Artful prose. The wonder depicted in the form of writing, the form of
anything—singing, architecture—can do so much in us, and in others. And in my
opinion, that dimension isn’t valued enough. Sometimes we care so much about
the what, and neglect the how. And the how is often the
very thing that makes a message so profound. When we stop valuing form, we
strip the soul out of whatever it is that is being said. Form is the soul of
expression.
Speaking of soul-stripping, I
get the idea that you are comfortable exploring dark ideas in your writing,
ideas about ugliness and pain and fear. True?
I guess so.
Well isn’t that dangerous? I
mean; being comfortable dabbling in dark ideas probably implies something dark
about you, that you’re tortured maybe. Or, I don’t know, maybe that you’ve got
unresolved issues that shouldn’t be shared with others—not your wife, your
friends, your readers—issues that you should keep to yourself. Unless, of
course, you want to fill the world with more darkness, be considered a dark
person, or are a dark person. Is that what you’re saying? Would you consider
yourself a dark person?
No. I’d actually consider
myself a hopeful person. But I like to explore the most honest places of life
and humanity, those places that we often don’t want to think about, and that,
at times, takes me into pretty dark territory. Can it be dangerous? Sure, just
like anything handled poorly can be dangerous. But in order to understand who
we are, in order to tell great stories, we have to go there. Our frequent
resistance to depicting darkness can lead to terrible art, untrue art.
Sometimes the “brightest” art feels good, but it’s a total lie. It glosses over
pain, and creates false realities, false promises, tidy answers that don’t
really exist. Sometimes art has to have elements of darkness if it’s going to
be true, if it’s going to bring genuine hope, transcendent hope…that butterfly
floating over the ashes of a burned city kind of hope.
Can you give me an example?
Sure, well, I’d say the Bible
is the most hopeful book I’ve ever read.
So?
And it’s also the darkest book
I’ve ever read.
Alright, well, since you had to
go and bring up the God thing: in Heroes and Monsters, you’ve got a character
named Jack. What’s up with him? I found that dimension to be weird,
wildly annoying sometimes.
Thanks. Yeah, so Jack is a
character that represents God. I did it this way because I wanted to capture
the physical presence of God in the story of my life, in both the big and small
moments, rather than representing him in a distant, floating amoeba kind of
way. I wanted people to be able to see how involved God has been in my life,
how involved he is in their own life. But I also did it to expand the way we
view God. It’s easy to fall into ruts when talking about God, always using the
same language, the same images, and in doing so we limit the conversation about
God to those who are able to access it in those terms, with those words and
pictures. It becomes an exclusive conversation. And because of that, we’re
always having the God conversation with the same people. I wanted to create a
fresh picture of God that would speak to those who struggle to access the
typical God conversation, to talk about God in a way that would engage those
who’ve grown tired of the same God talk, and maybe to depict God in a way that
would even rattle some folks. Besides, God is bigger than any of our pictures
or conversations anyway. I wanted this book to demonstrate that.
Yea, so I think we should stop
now. Besides, people probably aren’t going to like this anyway. You know that,
right?
Maybe. We’ll see.
Yeah, we will. Anything else
you’d like to add?
Yes.
Oh let me guess. I'll bet I
know. This is where you want to tell everyone to go get a copy of Heroes and
Monsters, right? At Barnes and Noble
or Amazon?
This is where you want to tell everyone that if they read this book, they can anticipate being swept up into a
story that is unlike most stories that they’ve encountered, being rattled and
moved, laughing out loud and shedding tears, being taken deep within
themselves, stirred to more intimate relationships with others and God, having
the muscles of their imagination flexed, and realizing that life is a
thoroughly damned and divine experience. Is that it?
Nice. Wow, way to make a sleazy sales pitch—
No.
Good, because I think most
readers of this book can anticipate being frustrated by the style and content, possibly
offended by the honesty and imagery, bored by the often meandering main
character, and using the pages to both ignite and sustain their backyard
bonfire.
Maybe. But I’d still like to add something.
And what’s that?
I wanted to tell you that
someday you’ll be gone. Someday you won’t bother me anymore. And that day is
coming. The day is coming when I’ll just be me. Just me. All the voices within
me will go quiet, and you’ll be nothing more than a memory, a vapor, a ghost that
used to harass me. When that day comes, you’ll serve the same purpose that
every other pain and struggle that I endure will eventually serve.
And what’s that?
You’ll become just one more reason
for me to celebrate.
