INTERVIEW : Kim Fu by Lauren C. Johnson
Lesser Known Monsters of the
21st Century
Kim Fu
Tin House Books
Interview by
Lauren C. Johnson
The gates to the childhood world of make-believe never fully closed for author, Kim Fu. While growing up in Vancouver, BC, Canada, Fu channeled her creativity into writing. Her powerful imagination is on full display in Lesser Known Monsters of the 21st Century (Tin House, February 2022), a kaleidoscope of speculative fiction.
Horrors and wonders—like a slimy, neon yellow sea monster, a teenager with winged legs, and machines and toys that disrupt life and death cycles—fill the pages of this short story collection. All but two pieces, “#ClimbingNation” and “Scissors,” bend reality in some way. Still, human relationships are the beating heart of each piece. Fu’s characters grapple with loneliness and grief. They seek pleasure and joy as they reach across a bewildering void for their partners, families, and friendships.
In addition to Lesser Known Monsters of the 21st Century, Fu is the author of two award-winning novels and a poetry collection. Her first novel, For Today I Am a Boy, won the Edmund White Award for Debut Fiction. Her “New Adult Fiction” novel, The Lost Girls of Camp Forevermore, was a finalist for the Washington State Book Award. How Festive the Ambulance, Fu’s poetry collection, won laurels like the National Magazine Awards Silver Medal. Fu has also delved into audio storytelling as a co-host of The Rough Puffs, a podcast devoted to the Great British Bake Off.
For me, the stories in Lesser Known Monsters of the 21st Century capture the anxiety of living in 2022. There are so many horrors—climate change, a pandemic, racism, and the growing threat of fascism, to name a few. Yet, there’s still so much about the world that’s staggeringly beautiful. Enchanted by this collection, I reached out to Fu for a Zoom interview. Here are the best parts from our conversation, edited lightly for brevity.
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Lauren C. Johnson: You’ve spoken about “Liddy, First to Fly” in a number of interviews, and I echo the praise others have given this story; I love it too! In a recent interview with The Rumpus, you said, “There’s a terrible reckoning that happens to children at a certain age, where they’re like, “Why aren’t my toys fun anymore? Why can’t I enter this world anymore?”
That statement reminds me of how I felt between 6th and 7th grade—when my friends and I were abandoning our beloved toys for rollerblades and makeup. Around that time, I secretly bought a Teen Skipper doll with my allowance money (I would have been mortified if my friends knew I had her.) Even so, Skipper had already lost her shine, and I grew bored of the doll soon after unboxing her.
You’ve captured this feeling so well! I’m curious, what did this time feel like for you?
Kim Fu: I was a big Lego kid. I would build cities and narrate stories to myself out loud. I would do voices for all the characters and describe what they were doing. I remember my parents and sisters calling out from next room, “Who are you talking to?"
I held on to childhood a lot longer than I think most kids did. I made my friends go trick-or-treating when we were 13, and at that point, a couple of the guys were six feet tall. Every door we knocked on, the first thing the neighbors said was, “Aren't you a little bit old for this?"
I really didn't want to let go, so it makes sense to me that I transitioned to writing. Writing was another space for imaginative play. It was a space that gave me access to that magic. I think writing gave me a way to hold on even after my friends decided not to dress up for another Halloween.
LCJ: After reading all 12 stories in order, a common thread emerged for me: escape. The characters are escaping into memories, like in “Pre-Simulation Consultation XF007867; sexual fantasies, like in “Scissors”; daydreams, like “In This Fantasy”; and physically escaping, like in “Bridezilla” and “June Bugs.” Could you speak to this thread? Was escape on your mind as you were either writing or arranging the stories into this book?
KF: For me, art and escape are naturally tied together. Experiencing art as a reader, as a viewer, or as a consumer can be an immersive experience—you are escaping yourself. I think we use the term escapism often in a negative or pejorative way about art we see as shallow, or silly, or offering simple pleasures and not a lot of complexity—art that's easy.
But I think that—even before quarantine—my life and my body felt small to me. In a way, your one self is a cage, and art is one of the only ways to leave, to have a bigger experience. With art, you can experience more things and places and possibilities than you ever could in one lifetime. It makes sense to me that escape would be a theme in my work, and I doubt that I'm done writing about it. I think that fantasy and virtual reality as a means of escape are probably going to come up in future work too.
LCJ: The stories in Lesser Known Monsters of the 21st Century are speculative— taking place in wildly-imagined worlds and realities, but interpersonal relationships always take center stage. “Twenty Hours,” for example, in which a decades-married couple owns a 3D printer that can print perfect replicas of their bodies, is chilling and surprisingly tender. In “Scissors,” which takes place during a public BDSM scene, you build tension by giving readers access to the point-of-view character’s inner world, allowing us to feel her anxiety about her partner’s (perceived) waning interest.
In so many ways, these stories seem to speak to the perils—and joys—of interpersonal relationships. What do you think these stories might be trying to say about love?
KF: Many, many years ago, I had a photography teacher who was dismissive of landscape photography, object still-lifes, and advertising photography. He really believed the only thing worth photographing was people; people had to be in the picture, or what were you doing? I don't know that he's right about photography, but I think that approach describes my writing interests. Even when I'm creating a fantastical world, interpersonal relationships are what interest me. Ultimately, to me, that is the nexus of a story, no matter how grand or bizarre the scenario is.
LCJ: I read a review that described you as a master of the unexpected turn. I whole-heartedly agree with this statement! Do those twists come into focus during revisions, or do they come to you as the first kernel of the story, and you go from there, exploring as you write?
KF: I don't think of my stories as having twists while I'm writing them. I usually start with an image or with sensory details. I generally can't write until I have a specific image, something I can see, something that the characters can smell or taste or touch; that’s my entry point into the story.
From there, I do start out with multiple possibilities in mind. I’ve noticed that’s the way a lot of my characters experience the world—they start out thinking they have lots of possibilities and options, and then those options winnow down as the story goes on. They become trapped in their own story until one path becomes inevitable.
In revision, I do try to think about how a reader is experiencing the story. I think about what the reader wants and expects to happen, and what it would feel like to have those expectations met or denied or subverted in some way. If what happens is what they expect to happen, how does that feel? If it's the opposite of what the reader expects, how does that feel?
LCJ: I had a nightmare about beetles after I read “June Bugs”. I mean that as a compliment—it’s a testament to your storytelling skills and precision when it comes to details. To that point, some reviews have described Lesser Known Monsters of the 21st Century as a collection of horror stories. What do you think—would you consider these pieces horror stories? What do you think readers can learn from stories that make us squirm a little?
KF: I'm surprised by the designation of them as horror stories, but I'm not against it. I think there is a kind of magic to the idea that words on a page can create such strong visceral reactions.
Many years ago, I read Dear Husband by Joyce Carol Oates, and there’s a story in the collection in which someone gets crushed in a trash compactor. I was reading this book on a plane, and I remember physically turning away from the book and slowly closing it, the way you would turn away from excess gore in a horror movie. I think it's incredible that just letters on a page—just ink on paper—can do that to you.
I think there's a lot to learn from horror, like the way it makes you sit with uncomfortable emotions. Horror does a lot in terms of craft, with tension and timing. I think the main thing, though, is that emotions are literalized in horror. There are feelings, or problems, or abstract, inchoate things that manifest into something physical, something you can see and look in the eye and fight and defeat or be defeated by. And sometimes the best way to express those emotions is to give them concrete shape.
LCJ: To that point, did writing any of these stories or scenes ever feel uncomfortable? Did you ever have a moment where you thought, ‘How am I going to write this? This is horrific to imagine.’ If so, how did you push through that discomfort?
KF: What I worry about more is making the reader feel uncomfortable in a way I didn't intend. I want to make those scenes feel real and earned—not shock for shock's sake. And I think the way I push past that is having trusted readers. It’s important to have people you can send drafts to, who you know will be honest with you if a work is making them feel unsafe, or if it's not working, or it's not landing the way you intend.
LCJ: Who or what is your favorite monster(s)?
KF: I’ve lived most of my life on the West Coast. I grew up in Vancouver and now I live in Seattle. Sea monsters, as a concept, have always been the most interesting to me, I think, because the ocean was already right there, beautiful, and majestic and seemingly bottomless. You have no idea what's down there, so why couldn't there be monsters?
LCJ: And you have a sea monster in your story, “Bridezilla.” Something I love about that story is how everyone has become complacent, accepting that the sea monster is a permanent fixture. It reminds me of the present reality with COVID and climate change. Horrible things happen and we just keep going about our business.
KF: It feels like something unimaginably horrific happens every day, and we all just have to accept it to keep on going. It’s a very hard way to live. The ocean was literally on fire at one point, right? There’s the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. That’s to say nothing of COVID. There's a lot that we just accept every single day. In that aspect, these stories are not speculative.
LCJ: When you teach creative writing courses, do you have a go-to story, poem, or essay that you like to share with your students? If so, could you share why you like to teach this piece of writing?
KF: Lately, I’ve preferred longer-term mentorships, as opposed to shorter lecture-based courses. When I’m working with a student one-on-one, I always ask, “What are your North Star books? Who are the writers that you want to write like, where you imagine a reader who loves their work would love yours?” Reading those books, plumbing them for examples, helps me better understand my students and their goals.
That said, I often point to different segments of How to Write an Autobiographical Novel by Alexander Chee. That book speaks to my own experience of writing, revising, and publishing in a way I find very useful. I also point to Craft in the Real World by Matthew Salesses for the opposite reason. That book was really a revelation; it made me rethink everything I know about writing. It made me question a lot of my own opinions and biases.
LCJ: In addition to Lesser Known Monsters of the 21st, you’re the author of two novels and a book of poems. That’s such an incredible body of work! How would you describe your process between projects? Do you always have something on hand that you’re working on, or do you go through periods where you’re not actively creating?
KF: I definitely have phases where I'm not actively creating. I may have a notebook or an app on my phone I use to record phrases or sentences that come to mind, or images, or tiny, nascent ideas—that kind of thing. But I'm not sitting down and creating new blocks of prose or verse.
I think consuming art is the most important thing to do during those phases. Consuming art helps you remember what it is you're trying to do. It reminds you how much art brings to your life, and how it makes you feel seen, and it makes you feel transported, and it makes you feel connected.
I also think you need to live, right? I mean, you have to have something to write about. It’s easy to get trapped in certain definitions of productivity—you must put your butt in the chair every day and churn out so many words, but there are so many other parts of writing that don't look like that.
There are parts of writing that are living, and daydreaming, and taking in the world and trying to see it in new and fresh ways and feeling like you're in conversation with all the other living artists of your time. Wouldn't it have been terrible to, say, have lived in the 1920s and been obsessed with the turn-of-the-century writers, only to miss what was happening around you?
