Deb Olin Unferth story & interview

La Peña (first published in Noon)

I. Pilgrimage

What we had decided to do was go to La Peña. We did not go to South America to do it. We were already in South America for another reason which we had forgotten. But then we heard of it, La Peña, and thought we should do it, though we didn’t know what it was. We asked a man and he told us we would have to go to the mountain. We took three buses and a jeep and it took two days. We arrived at last at the foot of the mountain.

The path to La Peña was winding and high and jungly. We walked, my boyfriend and I, stepped around stones and went up. On the way, we talked about it, what would it be like, La Peña? I said I thought we should light candles, that to light candles would be nice. He said he hoped there wouldn’t be any tourists. I said there would be at least two, he and I. He said that depended on whether we counted ourselves as tourists. He thought that maybe I was a tourist but he was not. In that case, I said, I was lucky because I wouldn’t see myself so when we got to the top I wouldn’t see any tourists. But poor him, he’d see me and have that horrible experience of tourism in a holy place. Yes, but you’ll still know you’re there, said my boyfriend.

II. Priest

On the path we met a spiritual guide. We would not have known that was what he was if he had not told us. He said he would guide us a little way for a small fee. We could walk on the path ourselves but we said it would be fun to be guided. The three of us walked a little way until we came to a creek. Our spiritual guide showed us the statue of the miracle man of the creek. The statue was small and it was of a man in a black suit carrying a briefcase. We thought it was an odd outfit for a South American miracle man but we said nothing. Our spiritual guide smoked a cigar in front of the statue. Nothing happened except an enormous butterfly floated by, big and blue as in a fairy tale. I didn’t see it. Everyone did except me—everyone, my boyfriend and our spiritual guide. No one thought to show me.

III. Prophecy

We left our guide by the creek and kept climbing up and winding around to La Peña. My boyfriend said he hoped, more than candles, that someone would be selling cokes at the top as it was damn hot. Then I stumbled over a tiny tiny man. He was crouched in the middle of the path. He said to us, “La Peña!” and we said, “Si, si, ahora vamos,” which means yes, yes, we’re on our way. As we walked off, I tripped over his can. It was rusty and aluminum and had a piece of string attached to it of which he held the other end. Toy? I don’t know. I shouldn’t name it. It was his.

IV. Fellowship

We climbed and climbed and it was certainly hot. Who knows how high it is, my boyfriend said. You can’t even see the top from here. Then we came upon two men going down. They stopped on the trail and held out a box. It was a small box, like for shoes, and it had flowers on top made of plastic and sparkling bits on it like glitter. We asked what was in the box and they said a virgin. It was a very small box and no one could fit in it, not even a virgin. But they insisted and even cracked it open so we could see and yes, there was a virgin inside but it was made of plaster so we didn’t think that counted but they were convinced. They said they were bringing the virgin to the waters. We talked a bit and then we said goodbye.

V. Salvation

We climbed and climbed. It went on forever. We thought we’d never make it, at this or at anything else. We thought there was no top, no end, only striving and rest to gather thoughts and strength. We thought we’d have to go back, return defeated. Then suddenly we arrived and we were there. It was the best of everything we had hoped for. We lit candles and we drank cokes. We did not count ourselves as tourists. We saw it, La Peña, and then we went back down.

That should have been the climax, La Peña, but it wasn’t. The climax came at the bottom not the top. We couldn’t find a jeep to bring us back to the buses. We walked and walked, asked the people in the dirt floor huts. No one knew or they weren’t telling. We were alarmed and sweaty. What will we do? I said to my boyfriend. There were no restaurants, no hotels, no concrete. It was a small crisis. He held my hand and we were brave. We sat on stools and waited. At last a jeep came splashing through the puddles and stopped. We were saved. We took the jeep and three buses back and later an airplane back and later other things forward and back, forward and back, with arrivals in between.

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Interview

I have read La Pena maybe ten times. Each time I opened NOON I eventually went to your story and read it and felt satisfied. Then I put NOON down and that was it. I either went to the kitchen or something else. How does that make you feel?

Thanks. It’s an honor when someone actually likes my work enough to read it more than once, especially the way you put it, in that matter-of-fact way: you said you read it, felt satisfied, then put the journal down, and that was it. That’s nice.

What if I said that I read your story ten thousand times and but I wasn't lying? That I read it five times each morning and fifteen on my lunch break and two hundred times on Sundays and that whenever I am not reading it now I feel the horror of existence and reality and it feels terrible. Would you feel afraid of me? Would you feel guilty for causing that?

That would indeed be odd but not so different from my experience of writing the thing, not necessarily that particular story but certainly most of my stories. I read it over and over like a robot and change single words so many times, the exercise starts to feel pretty claustrophobic and absurd, kind of how you describe it. Then, if I’m really lucky, someday a happy reader comes along and has the experience you describe in the first question.

Do you think that's possible. What I described in the last question? I think it is possible. I am a little afraid of reading something that good. It's a fear not unlike any other fear, like seeing aliens in doorways. Have you ever felt afraid of things like that?

Yes, I am afraid of reading things I like a lot for all kinds of reasons: I’m afraid I’ll like it too much and not be able to write anymore, after all, what’s the point? I’m afraid I’ll like it so much that I’ll only be able to write like that writer from now on and I won’t keep my own voice. I’m also afraid of reading things I don’t like because I’m afraid I’ll be infected by it. Or sometimes I’m afraid of finishing something I like a lot because I’m so happy of the person I’ve become while reading that book, the ideas I have, the images I have in my mind, and I’m afraid I’ll stop being that person when the book is over and I’ll never get it back. I used to worry about this stuff a lot, less so these days but it’s still there.

If it's not possible for literature to do that then that says something. Because that can happen with human beings. The horror of existence when in the presence of them. Or when not in the presence of certain ones. Can you say something about this?

I don’t know if I can. Do you mean when in the presence or not in the presence of certain human beings, then one feels the horror of existence? Yes, humans are a pretty scary lot, I suppose.

The last sentence of La Pena makes me excited, like I am on a little roller-coaster and air is going through my hair. And I feel strange, like I am finally going somewhere, in the world. I'm like, "Finally." But then the last four words are like a mom, if I were four, and the mom touches my head and says, "The roller-coaster is over. It is okay now." And I say, "Oh, okay." You studied philosophy in college. Can you tell me what I just said but pretending you are a philosophy professor?

How did you know I studied philosophy? That’s pretty good. I don’t know how to talk about it in terms of philosophical ideas, exactly, but I can say that I really like constructions like that, working with constructions like that, I do it a lot in my work, I think. In this case, I think I wanted to belittle human experience a bityou know, the self-importance of religion, of individualism, of tourism, etc. I wanted to humble myself a little, and so I was trying to do that in the last line, first by enlarging the trip home, making it into all these complicated steps, then by laying it beside and comparing it to their lives as entire, all the forward and back still to come, trying to summarize it quickly, so that it looks smaller and less significant to anyone but themselves. I was also interested in the lyricism of the line, I wanted to get that feeling of flinging back and forth.

The last sentence I just talked about. That happens a lot in this story, sometimes it does so in two or three sentences. It is like air is going through my hair but then stops and I am inside of reality again, sitting in a chair. When I read those sentences I think it is funny, when I am in the chair again. But this is a different funny than anyone who is a stand-up comedian or anyone who says they write humor. It's not the same at all as that kind of funny. When you look at things in the world, do you see this difference at all? Between say Saturday Night Live and your story? Say some things about this please.

I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen Saturday Night Live but I have seen plenty of funny things on TV and in the movies. Usually I don’t think they’re very funny even when I know very well that they’re funny or are supposed to be funny. Oh and here’s something I notice: I think I’m writing something serious and sad and people think it’s funny. That happens all the time. I can’t tell you how many times an editor has taken a story and written me a note saying, We’d like to publish this story, we think it’s so funny. I remember one time in particular I was really appalled and a little afraid for the editor, I thought he must be a rather hard-hearted man. Then sometimes people don’t think it’s funny and they say, I don’t like this piece at all, it’s just not funny. And then I have to admit, I’m sad and afraid I’m not funny anymore. I think maybe my work is perceived as funny when I try to imitate experience and not write a narrative. When I try to imitate how people actually talk and not how they have to talk to get the story going.

When I write something short and funny I can read it a lot of times. Some things that I write I keep reading almost everyday for like a week. Even some of the things I write on this site. For example I will reread these questions I typed and I will enjoy doing that, I know. Sometimes I read my own site as if it were someone else's site, and I grin at what I wrote and read it over again and enjoy that. When I write an email to someone I read my own email because I like the writing. Do you reread your own stories a lot? I think you do. Do you? If you do, when do you do it? When you are bored or sad or trying to write something else or what?

I can see why you reread your site. You have some very funny stuff on there. I really love that piece about the whale. I’d buy that children’s book and give it to my friends’ kids for sure. That’s great. Sure, I read my own work obsessively, not so much the pieces I’ve “finished” but the ones I’m working on. Usually I can hardly stand to read stuff I’ve “finished” or I’m afraid of it for one of the reasons I listed above, like I’m afraid I’ll imitate it or be infected by because I think it’s so bad now or whatever.

You went to Kansas at the University and joined the faculty. Rebecca Curtis is also teaching there. And David Ohle. Why does that university in Kansas have all these writers? It is like these writers are gathering there. How did you get your job there. Did you go because of someone else or because they found you or because of something else?

Yeah, I’m pretty lucky. I love my job at KU. I have excellent students, some of whom you’ll see great things from one day. The other faculty are great too: Tom Lorenz, Rebecca Curtis, David Ohle. It’s mostly because of Tom that we’re all here. He’s our boss, kind of, and he has a vision for the program and he’s extremely open to new ideas, experimentation, crazy new classes, anything. He brought Rebecca and I here and got David to start teaching creative writing. I can’t say better things about the place. I went because I applied for the job and they offered it to me.

Has anyone contacted you after reading La Pena to say something about the story? Did you ever... workshop the story? Did someone give you advice on it ever?

Actually I’ve never published a story that got workshopped. I don’t think I wrote a decent sentence until my last semester of grad school when I had already finished my workshops. Usually I show my stories to a few friends before I send them out. I don’t think that I showed that one to anyone though.

I had fun typing these questions. Does that make you feel like I'm taking attention away from you and giving it to myself? I wonder if you will write long answers and I hope you wrote long answers. Tell me how you felt when you just read that last sentence and then say something about literary magazines please, and then this is the end of the interview.

I’m glad you had fun. I had fun answering them. I hope I wrote long enough answers! That’s how I felt when I read that sentence. Literary magazines: I have all sorts of thoughts about them. There. That’s the end of my comments.

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deb olin unferth's stories are online here, here, here, here

and in print here, here, here, here, here, here

she teaches here with rebecca curtis and david ohle