This week I was interviewed by Ben Hunt, the keeper of the fabulous crime fiction blog, Material Witness, and as usual, I was very nearly hyperventilating by the time he called. I've been interviewed many times over the last year and it never ceases to induce panic. NEVER. It doesn't matter how good the questions are or how much the interviewer liked the book--it is like sitting for an oral exam. The worst part is the amnesia. The interviewer could ask my name and I would HAVE TO THINK ABOUT IT. I don't remember where I get my ideas; I have no recollection of how I developed my characters, and I really can't recall what made me want to be a writer. (And sometimes I have an out of body experience where I hear myself say things I am CERTAIN I did not mean to say. Like a few weeks ago when Rod Rice was interviewing me for KUHF's "Front Row" and he asked why my blog was so funny and engaging and I blurted out, "Vicodin." Totally not true, BTW. I meant to explain that I had been pretty guarded in my blogging until I was on Vicodin for three days in October and lost my filter a little when I was posting. Of course, at that point poor Rod had just about infarcted under the console, so I gave up.)
The WORST part is when they want to know what you're reading now. There is an unspoken expectation that writers will be erudite readers, choosing arcane and important prose from previously undiscovered writers and then sharing these gems with the public. Um, no. The truth is, I am cussing out Bram Stoker right now because I'm working my way through Dracula, something I would not be doing if it wasn't necessary, believe me. I am also dipping into The Meat Club Cookbook--for girls who love meat! and an astrology book on relationships. So when Ben wanted to know what ONE book I would recommend, I hastily scanned my bookshelves. And I ended up with To Kill a Mockingbird. Seriously. I flogged Mockingbird, a book that has sold eleventy jillion copies and something everyone in the free world has already read. Excellent. I couldn't have been more original if I'd picked the Bible.
That wasn't the highlight of the interview--no, that was when I gushed about Jane Austen. TO AN ENGLISHMAN. That's some serious groundbreaking right there. God, I hate myself. Which brings me to the inevitable aftereffects of an interview. They are like cocktail parties in that you gear yourself up to be witty and charming, you think you're having a wonderful chat with someone much more interesting and brighter than you are, then you go away and second-guess every last thing you said. The only difference is, after an interview IT LIVES FOREVER in print. (It suddenly occurs to me that interviews might be vastly easier if I combined them with the cocktail party motif and wore a pretty dress and sipped a Lemon Drop while I was answering questions instead of sitting in my red kimono trying to sip silently from the glass of water I KNOW is going to end up spilled all over my keyboard before I'm done.)
And people wonder why writers drink. HA! The most surprising aspect of the process is that I actually ENJOY it. I love giving interviews. I love discussing the process and thinking on my feet. I love the feeling of teetering on the abyss between being engaging and informative and being the biggest moron in the free world. It's like skydiving, but without the annoying nylon clothes and possibility of actual death.
Now that I'm done loathing myself, you ought to know that Ben asks excellent questions, is a thoughtful listener, and a brilliant writer himself. Go to his blog and find something wonderful to read. God knows I will. Maybe then when the NEXT interviewer asks me what I'm reading I'll have an answer.
Edited to add: This blog entry prompted a reply from Ben on his blog that made me feel infinitely better. And for the record, he asked me some of the most interesting and thought-provoking questions I've ever been asked. I don't remember them, of course--the amnesia referred to above also works retroactively--but I do recall being highly impressed at the time. (And he was nice enough not to notice when I dropped my BlackBerry on the floor and said something very impolite.)
