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A Subtle Problem: Carlee Bouillon interviews Bill Gaston

Literature loves relationships between mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, romantic partners, and women of all ages. But this story explores a less-investigated relationship in literature: a platonic friendship between two middle-aged men. What prompted you to begin thinking about the dynamic between these two men, and write their story? Which one of these characters came to you first?

Like most writers I know, I’m challenged by and enjoy exploring relationships between two awkward men, not just because the relationship itself becomes a kind of third character but because this character is endlessly odd, and complex. Relationships make men act up, hide, lie, dress carefully, drink or eat too much. Maybe I like exploring male relationships simply because men are often bad at them, so much so that when they get to a certain age they just stop trying. But relationships happen to them anyway, even to such as Jack and Dale, who are both loners by nature. As to which character came to me first, I have to confess that this story is the last one in a collection of linked stories, and the first story is all about Jack. So Jack has been lurking throughout the collection and it’s almost like he’s been biding his time before he launches himself at Dale. Jack has just accidentally killed a bird and his morals are such that now he needs to honour it by eating it, but to do that he needs to find and befriend someone who has a kitchen. Their relationship grows from there.

From the beginning of the story, Dale seems to crave a deeper connection with his son, but something holds him back. And it’s clear that by the end of the story, Old Jack has made a profound impact on the way Dale perceives and values people. So what is it about Old Jack that ultimately prompts Dale to throw his heart into his relationship with his son, at one a.m. on Christmas night while the party rages?

It seems that Dale can’t help but be infected by and learn from what I’ll call Jack’s innocent courage. A fugitive from society, Jack has long since stopped caring what people think of him, and just bravely and spontaneously does whatever he thinks necessary. Against his careful nature, Dale can see and admire this in Jack. Jack can also see Dale’s sadness over his relationship with his son, so with the authority of one who has seen his own loves wither, Jack simply shows him the truth: call him now or regret it for the rest of your life. And there’s also the fact that Dale has been having a good time with the wine and the shrooms, and making good connections with total strangers. Why the hell not call his boy?

The theme of unnerving birds is carried further with the topiary raven. This was such an unexpected image, and seems to be a moment for the reader to realize that although Dale comes across as mellow, he is capable of strong opinion and feeling. Can you tell us more about this moment in the story? Why topiary? Why a raven?

That last question is easy—the raven is my favourite animal. Twice here on Gabriola I’ve seen them fly upside down. Reasearch shows the raven has an abstract sense of humour, and is far and away the smartest bird. It would probably stalemate a chimp at chess. Again, this story is the last in a collection of linked stories, so some of the details—like the topiary raven—will have more import for readers who know that Jack has created topiary birds in hidden spots all over the island, in hopes that some day his daughter, with whom he is estranged, will come and see them. So the topiary raven is part of a rather pathetic, even tragic side to Jack’s backstory, one I hope still resonates with those who encounter him here for the first time. But even if not, I think a hidden eccentricity, especially one that has no explanation, can add a wonderful element to a character. And topiary is a grandly goofy thing—like Japanese bonsai it is a carefully tended living sculpture, but unlike the fierce realism of bonsai, it’s something of a cartoon. A good friend of mine, who used to work in the Tuileries in Paris, maintains a twenty-foot topiary quail in his Victoria backyard. But, yes, I agree that Dale’s reaction to the topiary is significant, and interesting. As a retired arborist, his anger is of a professional sort, that someone would dare add their human “improvements” to a tree, which, by definition, is already perfect. That he rationalizes away his anger in a similarly professional way—that if someone needs to defile a tree it should be this one, an invasive species—is also interesting. If someone like Jack happened upon a tree that angered him, he’d just chop the fucker down with a dull ax.

There are so many strong images, interesting characters, and thoughtful moments in this story. When you begin developing an idea for a short story, is there an element—image, character, theme, etc.—that usually comes to you first?

It always begins with a character, and almost always like this: a vivid character, in a specific place, with a subtle problem. Usually the problem is part of the character’s makeup. For instance, in this story Dale’s problem is loneliness. It’s so subtle a problem, he’s not even aware of it. Then along comes a catalyst character, in this case Jack, who is an expert at loneliness—he’s professionally lonely, you might say, and he sees Dale’s problem right away. He not only forces his company on Dale, he forces him to have a Christmas party, and while he’s at it he sees to it that Dale calls his son. I had no idea that Jack was going to do any of this. It’s also all a product of his own character, and his problem lay in hitting and killing that vulture, which he couldn’t bare letting go to waste.

This story takes place on a small island with a lot of character. You live on a small island, which probably has a lot of character. Can you talk about how your place of residence, at any given time, inspires your work?

Because I’ve lived in so many places—the west coast, the prairies, Toronto, the Maritimes, France—I often feel like something of a spy. I do tend to set my fiction in the place I happen to be living, and because I come from away, as is said, and have the eyes of an outsider, I can see the cultural idiosyncrasies. This can sometimes be useful in my work, especially when buidling a character, or depicting how characters interact. Speaking of islands, when I was coming of age in Vancouver, I’d often hear about people from Vancouver Island and how unfriendly they were. This, from famously unfriendly Vancouver! Living in the Maritimes, I’d hear about how unfriendly people from PEI are. Of course this is a huge and probably innacurate generalization, but it does point to there being “something” about island people. Similarly, universities being islands unto themselves, it’s been fruitful working in academia for as long as I have. Students are of course endlessly interesting, but so are faculty, who it turns out are no more enlightened than hockey players in a dressing room. In any case, as far as my living on a small gulf island goes, there’s a never-ending string of great characters trudging around. People do move to islands for a reason, and it’s probably not just because we’re all misanthropes. In the Skoll, Gabriola’s grungy little pub, you might find yourself sitting next to a dewy-eyed, 80-year-old hippie wearing a mushroom cap, or Diana Krall and Elvis Costello, or a multimillionaire with bad body odour, or the guy who fixed your tractor last winter and has now transitioned and is wearing a long, diaphanous, self-deprecating skirt. I tend to invent characters rather than grab them without permission from their splendorous real life, but I do like meeting people who seed ideas.

In many interviews you have given in the past, you reference your writing career as a continuously developing thing that had to come second, for a long time, to your teaching career. Is there something that you’ve always wanted to write, but haven’t yet?

Yes!

 

 

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