INTERVIEW : Abigail Stewart by Kathleen J. Woods
Assemblage
Whiskey Tit
Interview by
Kathleen J. Wood
The Bay Area literary ecosystem is vast and varied, and here in 2022, Berkeley-based Abigail Stewart is one of the writers helping it thrive. I first encountered Abigail at this past May’s Bay Area Book Fest, where she was ushering debut novel, The Drowned Woman (Whiskey Tit).
A swift six months later, I had the pleasure of talking to Abigail about her second book, Assemblage, a collection of short stories published on 11/11 by Alien Buddha Press.
Stewart’s collection delves into questions of the self and the other, feminine fury and power, the flawed utopian impulse, isolation and community, and our human relationship to nature.
In “Honeycomb,” a passionate beekeeper has to grapple with her husband’s overprotective, controlling reaction to her pregnancy. In “The Damp,” a teenager faces the slow revelation of her older boyfriend’s true character, eventually seeking the help of a “swamp witch.” And, in “Prickly Pear,” a woman stares into the surrounding desert, contemplating safety, impermanence, and decay.
These are just some examples of the interior and exterior landscapes Stewart guides readers through, all with fine details and a light, natural humor.
Below is our exchange, which touches on other stories in the collection, her approach to a arranging a collection, and what it means to be in writing community in 2022.
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Kathleen J. Woods: Can you talk a bit about the ways in which the concept of “assemblage” resonates for you as a writer, specifically a writer of a collection of short stories? How did you bring together these distinct narratives, creating cohesion between the disparate parts?
Abigail Stewart: My favorite short story collections are the ones that are interwoven first by being good stories, second by theme. I did not set out to write stories with common themes, but I found along the way that many of them still shared a familiarity without being explicitly connected to one another; they’re more ‘in the spirit of’ than obviously linked, I suppose. An assemblage is all about joining things together in new ways, and there are endless variations in writing.
KJW: I was struck by the way this collection deals with questions of isolation, loneliness, and community, and specifically the ways multiple characters seem to identify themselves against the other, or the perception of the other. What interests you about themes of observation, performance, assumption, and interpersonal misunderstanding?
AS: Every time we enter into a public sphere, either online or off, we are staging a performance of self, even if we are the only one who knows it. It’s ‘main character energy.’ And keen observation is such an important tool as a writer, so I definitely extrapolate what I see people enacting. In “Peripheral,” the story of the watched is equally as important as that of the watcher, but we are left to fill in the blanks, as we are in real life. Relationships are constantly being misunderstood and, in the story, we don’t really know the woman’s connection to her nanny, to her child, but we can draw lines that fill in the spaces, even if they aren’t the right shape.
KJW: I wanted to talk a bit about your story “Honeycomb” here, which deals with a beekeeper and bees, separate creatures that operate as one, the “gentle buzzing and busyness of the hive” Can you say a little bit about the contrast between isolated humans and united, harmonious creatures/nature in this collection?
AS: I wrote some of these stories in the deep isolation of the pandemic and there’s a yearning for connection that comes through because of that. Although I was taking writing workshops and attending author talks on Zoom, and I did find some community that way, it was also disheartening to witness the breaking down of connections and community in the wake of the election and ongoing Covid surges. I do think empathy and community is necessary for harmony, but perhaps it doesn’t come as naturally to humans as it does to other forces in nature.
KJW: Throughout the book, you present many images of rot and decay, natural disaster and fragile mortality. What inspired your approach to the natural world in this collection? And what inspired you to write women as connected to nature in these ways?
AS: We are living amid daily disasters and I think about death often. The only way I am able to process, to create my own understanding of the world, is to write about it. I tend to spin the unreality of my stories into the concept of ‘mother earth’ and the natural magic of the feminine. The ongoing climate crisis makes me consider that if we could recapture the magic of nature, maybe we could staunch the bleeding. Or maybe that’s just the plot of Fern Gully.
KJW: Another thread in this collection is the introduction of places and institutions that promise to provide healing and respite from the harms of the world. Whether they actually do… well… How did you approach the question of promised utopia in this collection?
AS: I am not sure I believe in the concept of a functional utopia; however, I also understand the very human desire to seek it out. In “Honeycomb,” there’s the very natural symbiosis of the beehive, but when humanity and ego get involved, nothing can survive. “Bone Dry” is the first time I’ve explored arts education as part of a dystopian future. In my own anecdotal experience working in public schools, I’ve watched arts funding be slashed or questioned over and over again. The Crucible offers an alternative to that, a presumed safe space away from the administrative rulings of society, without constant justification of why art matters. It’s too tempting to deny.
KCW: I’m also interested in the themes of mental illness in this collection and many of your characters seem restless or dissatisfied. How do you hope readers will understand mental illness, systemic sources of malaise, and perhaps, the pathologizing of that malaise? Or, if I’m way off base, how were you approaching themes of mental health more broadly here?
AS: People, but especially women and those who are female-identifying, are frequently offered the mantel of ‘crazy.’ The title is foisted upon us as a flippant dismissal, a flick of the wrist. “Oh, her? She’s crazy.” That’s what we, as a society, call women who are angry. And I wonder, when is rage justifiable? When is it palatable? Should it ever be palatable at all? More directly, in both “Liminal Space” and “Cygnet,” there is a medical and societal inability to see beyond troubled woman. There is also a certain freedom in a woman’s madness, if it’s even madness at all.
KCW: Many of your stories take turns into violence, whether the random violence of nature or acts of vengeance or anger. How do you approach endings, as a writer? Did you find the question of endings—or the feeling you want your readers left with—complicated by the arrangement of an entire short story collection?
AS: There is always violence rippling in the periphery of society and, as I mentioned above, the societal stifling of female anger, whose own existence is often in response to violence. So, I do not think endings need to be happy to be interesting, and I am often drawn toward an ambivalent ending than a concrete one in both reading and writing. I always liked the end of The Handmaid’s Tale for that reason.
KCW: Finally, I’m in awe of your prolific writing and reading! Talk about staying engaged with art through hardship. What drives you to stay actively involved in the Bay Area Literary Community? What are your favorite local reading series/publications/etc?
AS: I love the diversity and inclusivity of the Bay Area literary community. San Francisco is a city of bookstores, which I also love. Green Apple Books in the city always has something interesting scheduled. Deep in the pandemic, my local wine club started doing virtual readings, and I’d love to do something like that in-person. As far as publications, certainly The San Franciscan and ZYZZYVA are among my favorites.
KCW: Oops, actually finally, can you share some of your favorite novels you’ve read recently?
AS: This is always such a hard question! Most recently, I really enjoyed Grand Hotel by Vicki Baum — originally written in German in 1929, it was almost refreshingly modern. I am always drawn to books set in hotels. Liska Jacobs’ The Pink Hotel, which I read over the summer, sent me on a mission for additional hotel literature. The Pachinko Parlor by Elisa Shua Dusapin was another recent favorite. I think it’s safe to say I will read anything by Dusapin. I also write a lot about what I am reading in my Substack as well: https://learningtointerrupt.substack.com
