Mike Nagel
(Readers can find Mike Nagel’s prose piece, “Facepalm” in Issue # 7 of No Contact)
Richardson: Mike! What fun to look back at this piece a few years later and think about its significance and meaning over time. We were really thrilled you sent it to us and glad to give it space in issue #7. So firstly, a few questions about “Facepalm” and its creation. One of the things I find interesting about the central image of mayflies is that they’re an ancient grouping of insects. So, they’re sort of inherently more meaningful in a way than humans–they’ve lasted a long time. But order, class, purpose, and value are all things our narrator is kind of struggling with in this piece. He says he’s “forgetful of place in the world.” The mayflies kind of perfectly demonstrate this struggle to understand these things. Our narrator at first devalues and dismisses them, and then sort of shifts and learns of their significance, but because their significance doesn’t fit into a larger pattern for him, there’s that moment of “there’s not even a theme” so he decides they don’t have meaning after all. Can you talk a little about that journey for our narrator or what drew you to tell a story about a narrator struggling with this larger picture of purpose, class, order, and meaning?
Nagel: Hey Suzanne! Thank you so much for chatting with me about this piece! What a great question, full of mayfly information! The truth is that I actually don’t know shit about mayflies. The only thing I know about mayflies is that thing I mention in the piece, about how they may or may not be super poisonous. I’m still not sure if that’s true or not. I never looked it up. The reason they became a central image in this piece is simply because, at the time that I wrote it, they were a central annoyance in my life. They inserted themselves into the writing. Which is pretty important to me actually. I’m always hoping for real life to intervene in whatever I’m working on. Happenstance and serendipity are a big deal to me. If something I’m working on goes according to plan, I almost always throw it out. What’s the point, you know? Has there ever been a good book or movie about something that went according to plan? Real life is random and unthematic and I think it’s very exciting when art or literature engages in that rather than forcing material into some sort of thematic or narrative submission.
Richardson: Wow, I actually find that be incredibly serendipitous that you didn’t know anything about mayflies. When I read the piece and looked a bit more into them I felt they made so much sense in the work that they had to be placed. Having them be placed unconsciously is one of those writing things that’s amazing. They lend themselves perfectly to our narrator’s anxieties. There’s an anxiety about the future that hangs around this piece that also kind of seeks to crush meaning. Can you talk about that choice to so explicitly suggest that maybe there’s no future in this piece?
Nagel: Shit yeah, there’s anxiety. Absolutely! Anxiety out the wazoo. Holy cow. But also a kind of nonchalance or resignation, too, maybe? Makes me think of that Sontag line. “Our permanent modern scenario: Apocalypse looms…and it doesn’t occur. And it still looms.” I wrote the piece a month or two into the pandemic so a lot of that anxiety and bewilderment is just baked into it. I wasn’t making a lot of choices so much I was just responding to things that happened to be going on at the time. I’m also a philosophical pessimist, atheist, Earnest Becker devotee, and all-around bummer of a person usually, so it honestly wasn’t too shocking to me that the world seemed to be ending. Made sense, honestly. So, to answer your question, suggesting that there might not be such a thing as a future struck me as a fairly obvious observation to make in April of 2020. Still does, if I’m being honest.
Richardson: “All around bummer of a person” made me laugh. I love it. I like that you’re highlighting lack of choice as part of something you experienced that maybe brought on this sense of doom. The most powerful part of this piece to me is the “UMMMM” in the middle when our narrator is confronted by human death. “Um” is an expression of hesitation, doubt. It’s also not far away from “ium” which is the Latin suffix for a biological structure or region of the body. It’s also not far away from, “om” sonically, which is a kind of spiritual stress release, a cleansing. I find our narrator to be kind of between those things with their “ummmmm,” a kind of emergent meditative reaction to death, and also reacting so deeply in their body so they’re unable to find words. It’s a moment of speechlessness that takes place between the body (the biological) and the spiritual. Or the specific (the body), and the abstract (the mind). Can you talk a little bit about how you came to that moment? Why you chose “ummm” instead of other expressions? Or anything else you’d like to say about the significance of that reaction for this particular character?
Nagel: Ha! I copped that “Um” straight from Vonnegut. Slaughterhouse Five, page six. O’Hare says it when he hears about a soldier executed for stealing a teapot. It’s the most honest response to horrific absurdity I’ve ever heard, and I just swiped it as a response to my own little fucked up situation. When I was twenty-seven, I watched a guy jump off a high rise in downtown Dallas. Which is bad enough, of course, but the real fuck of it was that I happened to be the guy trying to talk him out of it when he jumped, yelling to him from an open window in the building next door, offering to buy him a beer, all this dumb stuff. I think, even eight years later, I’m still coming to terms with the absurdity of that day. The “Um” of it. I think that “Um” is a pretty central piece in Facepalm, and I think extending that Ummmm into that next paragraph just started as a little twitch-reflex joke, but then struck me as accidentally being kind of true. That I’ve been thinking “Ummmm” ever since that day. And that “Ummm” is actually a semi-functional mantra for an absurdist. I do remember revising the length of the “Uuuummmmmm” many, many times. Looking back on it, I probably went a little overboard.
Richardson: This is amazing. I didn’t recognize it from Slaughterhouse Five, but now that you’re saying it, I’m like, of course! So, Vonnegut! This memory at twenty-seven is an interesting thing to embed in this piece about crisis and futurelessness. Powerful, and disturbing, and upsetting, and sad, and also absurd, and illogical, to bear witness to the ending of a life like that. I appreciate very much that you let us as readers say the “ummm” alongside your character here. That we’re invited into the “umm” with the length and repetition of it. When you say you revised the length, I’d love for you to talk a little about that. What lengths did you play with, how did you arrive at the final length? Why does the length matter?
Nagel: I remember messing with equal numbers of Us and Ms at first. I liked the thought of a symmetrical UM. But then I felt like the UM I was looking for was more heavy on the Ms, which is more of a chest sound than a head sound, which felt more meditative to me. I remember going very short with it at first because that felt like the writer-y thing to do. Be brief and all that. Something like: “Ummm.” But that was feeling too short, like it wasn’t calling enough attention to itself. It wasn’t ridiculous enough. It was supposed to be ridiculous. So then I remember actually saying the UM I wanted out loud in my room while holding the U key and M key down, which I think is closer to where it ended up. A lot of Us and Ms. But even then it didn’t quite look right to me. I’m very aware (probably overly aware) of how things look on the page. The shapes of the paragraphs and all that. I want a piece to look sexy, you know? Different shapes and stuff. Like a bunch of Tetris pieces in a poorly played game of Tetris. So then I remember playing with the UM in terms of how it fit on the page. I think originally I wanted the second UM to take up exactly two lines. Wall to wall. Coast to coast. But of course, that was dumb because it’s an online piece and the size of the paragraphs adjusts based on the person’s screen and whether they’re on their phone or laptop or whatever. So that was a waste of time. Later, when this piece ended up in a printed book, I didn’t even bother adjusting it, probably because I’d had enough of the UM by that point. 26 U’s and 58 M’s by my count.
Richardson: I do really enjoy the moments where the story sort of becomes conscious of itself as a story. Like a narrator who thinks “everything is about learning.” Or, exclaims “there’s no theme.” Or, how he settles on that song, “Don’t Panic” when literally being confronted by the past i.e. swarms of mayflies. Can you talk about this decision to kind of go in and out of ultra self-consciousness about the story “storying”?
Nagel: Haha. The story storying. That’s awesome. To be honest with you, I don’t get too excited by meta narration these days. A piece talking about itself too much strikes me as bad manners. At the same time, if you’ve chosen to write over and over again about nothing – like I have – the piece itself kind of is the point, you know? Its success or failure is the plot. That’s the highwire act: just seeing if you can pull this off, whatever it is. That type of work excites me a lot. I think Patti Smith’s M Train might be the most perfect example of this, but I also think about books like Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and For the Time Being and Autoportrait and Rings of Saturn and Yoga for People Who Can’t Be Bothered to Do It. These are the highwater marks to me – literature that is, in ways, about itself, which is kind of meta I guess, but I also see it as a kind of heroic sparring with life’s inherent meaninglessness and plotlessness and lack of theme. Can you still make something compelling without all those things? Can life still be compelling without those things? Speedboat is a page-turner (though some people may disagree) without ever being about anything. I find that incredibly hopeful and moving and inspiring, not just in terms of literature, but in terms of my life.
Richardson: I like that you’re talking about proportions when talking about story, and in fiction in particular. I do think proportion in fiction is critical. I hadn’t thought about M Train in this way, but you’re absolutely correct that it’s very much about itself. Pilgrim, yes and even Dillard’s American Childhood feels that way. I always think of Dillard when I’m trying to tell students you can literally write about things you see out your bedroom window, or things under your bed and make it interesting or beautiful. Writing as a way of seeing, not necessarily accruing tons of unique experience, but being able to think complexly and deeply about the ordinary. I think that’s art. I’m curious if you consider writing an art form? Do you consider yourself an artist?
Nagel: I love this question, and I think about it all the time. It may be best for me to answer with some bullet points.
I do believe literature is art. But, of course, I don’t believe all writing literature.
I do not believe “art” or “literature” is any better or more difficult or more important than any other creative form. i.e. Some of the most impressive writing out there is in the Fodor’s Travel Guidebooks. Perfect, load-bearing sentences everywhere you look. A marvel of clarity and craft. Honestly, every writer should study them.
I believe the defining characteristic of art is that it is useless and pointless.
As a writer dedicated to uselessness and pointlessness, I do consider myself an artist, yes.
I could be completely wrong about all of this. What do I know.
Richardson: I like your list here, just to put pressure a little on one of your points, when you say useless and pointless, do you also mean valueless, or even priceless? Or are those things too often conflated?
Nagel: I’m so glad you asked. People sometimes get offended when I float this idea of literature being useless and pointless for the exact reason you mention here. Does that mean it has no value? Does that mean we shouldn’t even bother with it? But I think that’s a pretty capitalistic way of looking at it, you know? That something’s value is purely in its utility? That something is only worth our time to the extent that it has a point. So let me clarify by saying that art is useless, and therein lies its use. It’s pointless, and therein lies its point. I still believe that art is one of the top five or six things that makes life worth living. I didn’t invent this idea, by the way. I’m just a big fan of it. Oscar Wilde: “All art is quite useless.” Théophile Gautier: “Nothing is really beautiful unless it is useless.” As my genius writer-friend J. D. Daniels has often reminded me: “The most useful room in the house contains the toilet.” But I’m curious to know what you think, Suzanne? Agree or disagree?
Richardson: I feel like I go back and forth on these distinctions. As a writer, when I create I want to protect myself from the capitalistic eye so that I create what needs to be created without worrying about “what sells” or “what’s got value.” But I’ve found myself caught, or frozen sometimes with exactly that eye glaring down. “Who will read this?” which is a form of self-doubt somehow often gets conflated with “is this valuable?” However, I find that when my work gets picked up I feel that imbues it with more value, though I’ve hardly ever been paid for my work, so, okay what’s the “value” if it’s all free? I think we do need to keep those things separate, and distinct if “value” is primarily monetary we need another word for engagement or impact of work separate from “value.” But, then, of course, the dream is to publish and reach wider audiences and in order to do that your writing must become a capitalistic object, something of value and a literal price gets put on it. However, reading this recent substack by Lincoln Michel made me reconsider even that process. If hardly any books are really selling what does this mean? Even when we stick literal prices on art it doesn’t always appreciate or necessarily have more impact. It’s tricky. I think my most ideal self wants to fully agree. I do think there’s gorgeous freedom in free art. I think free art is actually incredibly powerful and that’s largely why I really love lit mags and journals. But I also know people have to live, and art deserves to be “valued” just as much as anything else. I think my vainglorious and bill-paying self wants to feel my art is “valuable” because I live in a world where money is a supposed reward or stamp of approval, and it is hard work to create, and I’m tired of living in a world that doesn’t recognize the labor of art…ugh. Ugh! I feel like we could really talk about this for weeks. Such a rich topic! I don’t have any answers, Mike, but I’m with you in these considerations. Stepping to the side a little here, can you tell us a little about your writing practice? As in, how do you write? Do you use notebooks? Computer? Do you write during the day? At night? Do you have rituals or superstitions? Things that have to be in place for a session to be successful? How often?
Nagel: I’m pretty obsessive about my writing practice. It’s not always healthy or helpful or necessary. But since I started writing, around age 22, I’ve written every morning for exactly two hours. Like, two hours to the minute. I have a timer. At exactly two hours, I stop in the middle of whatever I’m doing and come back the next day. I used to write at the Starbucks in downtown Dallas from 6am to 8am and then walk to work. Almost everything I’ve ever published was written in a Starbucks. I write on my laptop with this old program that isn’t even supported anymore called Writeroom. It’s one of these “distraction-free” things that’s just white text on a black background with no spell check. Now I’m lucky and work from home, so I write from 7am to 9am. Before I start writing I say a little thing: “I solemnly swear to not know what I’m doing.”
Richardson: I love that you have such a solid routine. That can be so comforting and stabilizing and helpful. Coffee shops really don’t know what a gift they are, do they? I’m curious about this distraction-free software, I’ve had friends do different versions of this, also some have gotten old-school word processors that are portable to avoid the internet while writing. It’s not something I’ve tried myself, but I’ve flirted with it. This mantra is nice, I like that it takes the pressure off of you to “know” anything about the creation of your work, but also it takes pressure off of production or results. This feels fully linked to the idea that art is and should be “useless.” Do you feel like couching art in the absurd protects the art and artist from capitalistic pressures that can ruin or muddy it?
Nagel: I think so, yes. I think, for me it works as a kind of psychic forcefield to keep me from freaking out when it’s going badly, which is most of the time. I also fully realize that this mindset/mantra is a luxury of a person who isn’t making a living at this. Who really has no pressure to produce anything at all. I’m a bonafide amateuer of literature. In ten years, I’ve made a grand total of $700 on literary writing. I’m no pro. Not even close. So take my advice with a pillar of salt. I remember hearing this story about Dorothy Parker. Someone asked her why she wrote, and she looked at them like they were nuts. “For money, dear,” she said. So. You know. Your mileage may vary.
Richardson: So, we know Starbucks was your office for a long time, but what does your writing space look like now?
Nagel: Lately I write on a little orange Ikea couch in my office with my laptop on my lap. I have a little shelf next to me full of guitar pedals that I set my coffee on. Usually, my cat sits next to me, but sometimes he’s a huge asshole so I have to kick him out. I can look out my window at my front yard.
Richardson: I wanted to give you some space to reflect a little on what No Contact and maybe specifically what Gauraa and her work at the magazine has meant to you as part of this little indie lit community since we are wrapping up our run as a literary space, and working to honor her memory here.
Nagel: I remember when No Contact first launched, thinking Oh look, a pandemic mag. A lot of those were popping up back then. But right away I could tell No Contact was different. It was cool. It was specific. It had such a look and feel and vibe. A lot of that, I realize now, had Gauraa’s fingerprints all over it. At the time, I was feeling a little lost with writing and publishing, not quite sure what I was trying to do or where I fit in. Gauraa accepted my Facepalm essay within 24 hours, even though I went over the word limit and I wasn’t sure it was any good. She sent an incredibly encouraging note along with the acceptance, which meant a lot to me. We continued to keep up with each other here and there over the next couple years, and we both ended up having books scheduled to come out around the same time. It was obvious that she was not only an incredibly talented writer and editor, she was just a really great person. I think the effects of her contributions and generosity will be felt for a long, long time in our little literary community.
Richardson: I feel like I have had similar thoughts, where Gauraa and Natty’s acceptance from No Contact came at a time when I really needed a win after feeling adrift for so long with my work. That feels like a common experience with No Contact and what it brought to many writers in our community, encouragement, hope, and acceptance around some of their most unconventional and challenging work. I really can’t thank you enough for this conversation, Mike. It’s gotten my brain working! I’m now considering my own mantras that I could say to help my creativity a bit when I sit down to write. How can we support you and your work? What’s coming up for you?
Nagel: A few years ago, I wrote a short book called Duplex that includes Facepalm. It recently came out as an audiobook narrated by Tim Heidcker. I think it’s free to listen to on Spotify, but you can get it on Audible or Apple books or wherever. Then I wrote a follow-up to Duplex called Culdesac which just came out earlier this year with Autofocus Books. It’s all the same type of stuff. All very Facepalmy. Walking around and riffing. So if someone likes Facepalm, check out the books! But if they don’t like Facepalm, avoid the books at all costs!
Richardson: Wow, incredible to see your success. Mike! we are always looking for and celebrating your work. Just this small conversation has me thinking about how protective we should be of our creativity in a world that often tries to immediately monetize or devalue it. Thanks so much! Such a deep conversation!
Nagel: Thank you, Suzanne, for your brilliant questions!
Mike Nagel wrote about Gauraa as part of his column in Little Engines here.
