Marcella Prokop is a quickly emerging essayist–who’s passion for the written word is second to none–a teacher, mentor, and self-admitted vagabond. She’s also the newest literary contributor to Composite, who’s essay, “No Single State of Being” was published in No. 4: Doppelganger. Marcella was gracious enough to take some time out of her busy life and let us pick her brain.
Composite: Your work, specifically, “No Single State of Being,” which was published in Composite No. 4 Doppelganger, is incredibly raw and honest. As a reader, I really get the sensation that you’re putting your own personal “state of being” on the table for all to see. Why have you chosen to write in the creative non-fiction genre when, you could just as easily have written your stories under the guise of fiction, and do you ever feel vulnerable for doing so?
Marcella Prokop: Well, when I write about things that happened to me during that time period, or because of what happened to me when I had the stroke, everything is raw. I couldn’t imagine then I’d forget the way my head hurt, or that I’d find a sense of “me” after that, but I have forgotten some of those things and I have found a new “me.” When I write, however, the emotion and uncertainty is there all over again, and it just spills out onto the page. I can’t control it. That kind of answers the second part of your question, too, but really, I just can’t write fiction. It’s my roots in journalism, I suppose.
The second part of my answer to that, though, is that I really experienced the things I write about, and when I write on that topic—healing, I mean—not just the stroke and its aftermath, I want to be as honest as possible. I worry that writing it slant, or fictionalizing it might make the “happy” outcome seem less valid. In employing nonfiction, I feel that anyone who has struggled with crisis or extreme change can then come across whatever I’ve written, identify with it and feel some hope that recovery or healing or “normalcy” is possible. So I don’t feel vulnerable so much as courageous. I guess that makes me sound somewhat proud of myself, but that’s not entirely it.
CO: Since the emergence of New Journalism in the 60’s and 70’s, there has been much debate from critics on either side of the spectrum as to creative non-fiction’s ability to present the facts accurately. In your opinion, is this a problem you find yourself having to overcome each time you sit down to write?
MP: Not each time. Usually that problem comes with dialogue, but there are times when a discussion has been so beautiful, or so painful that it cuts itself into the slab of my memory. For instance, when I finished my thesis I asked one of the people I’d written about to read the chapters that included our interactions. He was upset about some of what I’d written, and asked me if I was “taking notes” every time we hung out. That wasn’t the case at all—he’s a musician and just has this lyrical way of saying things that I find so beautiful. [laughs] he’ll probably be mad at me for telling that story too, now.
Outside of dialogue, I am very particular about getting the setting right, so if I can’t quite remember something, I’ll go back to the place it occurred and see if I can recapture it. Obviously that doesn’t always work, so if I have a picture to look at, a journal or my notebook, that helps. If I know I’m going to an event I’ll want to write about, I definitely take a notebook with me to jot down my impressions and inspirations while I’m there. Of course sometimes I’ve got nothing—in my memoir about the stroke I’ve had to write the brain surgery scene from an outside angle to circumvent the fact that I wasn’t really there, observing. It’s a challenge, but that’s part of the creativity I owe my readers and my craft.
CO: Creative non-fiction uses many of the tools present in fiction—dialogue, shifting points of view, free indirect discourse, tropes, just to name a few—and could easily be mistaken for fiction if not for genre labels. What is/are the defining characteristic(s) that separates creative non-fiction from fiction?
MP: Everyone who writes in the genre has a different explanation, but I believe that without the guise of character/mask a writer really is naked on the page. If she’s willing to bear herself that much, why would she add things or make up her story? Why would she want to? So I guess my convoluted answer is that it’s truth that separates the two. I know I said earlier I don’t write fiction, but that’s not entirely true. The only time I write in that genre is when I’m writing flash. I’ve had some moments in my life that are too precious, or too horrible for me to really understand. Then I have to write behind the mask because I’ve got to get some distance from the event to get perspective and thus closure. So maybe an answer to your question is that understanding separates the two genres. What I mean by that is the different genre writers have different understandings of the truths they are trying to share. Fiction is the mode that allows a writer to birth his or her characters and theories and let the world make up its mind about them, because maybe she’s still not even sure who they are or why things happen to them. Nonfiction, I feel, requires the writer to say something in addition to that. Something certain, even if the characters or scenes are still hard to understand. I’m not sure if that’s a good answer because fiction does reach into a place of truths and understanding… But I guess I haven’t thought about this question as it relates to me because I write so little fiction.
CO: You recently graduated from Chatham University—earning your MFA—and took part in their low residency program. What is the difference between low residency and full residency, and what informed your decision to take part in their low residency program rather than their full residency?
MP: I’ll answer the second part first. Low-residency programs allow students to participate full or part-time in an MFA program while maintaining the lifestyle they currently live. Beginning a two-year (or more) writing program requires a lot of sacrifice and work, and sometimes things like jobs and time can’t be given up for the sake of art. While enrolled in a low-res program, students can log on to their discussion boards at any time, within their instructor’s allotted amounts. They then catch up on the discussions classmates have been having, and keep up in that manner, reading and writing on their own. This is how writers work in the real world—independently—so it made sense to me. In addition to this, each August Chatham students convene on campus in Pittsburgh to spend 10 days together in craft discussions, writing workshops and community. It’s a very fast two weeks, but that sense of connection and support is just amazing. I worked full time my first year, in Chicago, so each mode of participation was convenient for me. I became very close with several of my instructors, and by the time my second year and serious thesis work came around, my director and I knew how much time and distance we needed to make deadlines and revisions work for each of us. The one problem I encountered didn’t present itself to me until I started teaching. I didn’t have the opportunity to take a hand-on pedagogy class, and during moments of “what the hell am I doing up here?” in front of my classroom, I feel like that would have helped me.
The second half of that answer is that I’m a very restless person, and when I began grad school I was living in Chicago. I didn’t know if I would be there for two more years though, and I didn’t want to feel bound to a physical campus. Low-residency solved that problem for me. Chatham’s program focuses on travel and environmental writing, honoring the legacy of Rachel Carson’s work. Despite my restless nature, writing about the places that do enchant and affect me is a big part of who I am and how I understand my place in the world. Instead of encouraging me to just settle down and write, Chatham honored my needs and spontaneity.
CO: Most graduates—bachelor, masters, or otherwise—find the transition to life outside of school to be somewhat difficult. Armed with your new degree, what are your plans for your post-graduate life, and in what ways will your experience at Chatham University help you realize these goals?
MP: Annie Dillard once wrote that graduates should not worry about what they do in the first year after graduating because it’s not what they’ll be doing for the rest of their life. I’ve been extremely lucky in that I’ve been teaching at the college level as I’d hoped since last year. I went through a period where I was so burnt out I didn’t want to teach, but with an MFA…it’s kind of a given that at some point you’ll end up doing it. So for now, I’m teaching, living in South Dakota and planning some travel abroad. Other than moving to South Dakota when I began my thesis, I did end up anchoring myself to my laptop for those two years, and I’ve missed the open road and the hazards of travel. Having the MFA give me the credentials I need to work in higher education, as it is a terminal degree. But beyond all that—when I began grad school I did so because I wanted to focus on honing my craft. The program definitely helped me do that. I’d written a memoir manuscript before I started school, and then set it aside for two years. Now as I revise it, I can see that I have matured as a writer. And a person. I know that time helps one grow, but the most important thing I took away from grad school was not the cred I needed to teach, but the encouragement of other writers I admired to sit and think, to reflect upon m life and how I wanted to live. I had to walk away from what could have been a good relationship to focus on what I really needed to focus on Writing is hard, lonely work, but it’s the only thing I know how to do and truly be me.
CO: And finally, what are you currently reading, and who are some of your favorite authors?
MP: At home, I’m reading The Horizontal World, by Debra Marquart, Show and Tell 6, which is a writer’s guide compiled by the department of creative writing at the University of North Carolina Wilmington, and Party Train, an anthology of North American Prose Poetry. At work, when I have a slow day I read through a Best American Short Stories book because I am seriously lacking in books from the fiction world. I admire and envy the work of Lauren Slater, Barbara Hurd, Annie Dillard, Scott Russell Sanders and Tom Wolfe. Oscar Hahn, Michael Mejia and Helena María Viramontes nourish my Latina side.
