Interview with 2023 Peter Hinchcliffe Fiction Award Winner Alex Kitt

How do you write, exactly? 

Usually, writing starts with an idea I want to explore further, something that holds heat. I follow and build around that moment, an image that feels very strong. It’s also duetting with other books, riffing off of their cuff. A lot of it just looks like scribbling. I try to stay away from the computer and use paper and pen. 

At a certain point, pieces come together, and then it’s just filling out all the spaces in between, adding complexity, or following the question of the story and learning more about what the story wants to be. 

To draw an analogy to skateboarding – I’ve been skateboarding since I was eleven – in trying a new trick, you’re faced with this thing you’re scared of, and don’t quite know how to do. You try it, and you’re not even close, but you say to yourself Oh, I passed the fear of trying it! You still have another 137 attempts before you land it, and all this time, you’re trying to trick your brain into wanting to put yourself in that place of possible danger, and continue along the path towards figuring it out. You can visualise the trick, use your anger at having fallen so much to try again with more fervor, or repeat a mantra of what to focus on or take any other approach really. There are different ways you can sit within yourself to attempt something new. I keep this in mind when I approach a new writing project, it’s different every time for every story.

What draws you to write short fiction over other genres?

I’m picky, and when I’m reading novels I often feel like saying  “get on with it”. I think there’s something really special about an author who, within a limited amount of words, can write a short story more impactful than a novel. It feels like there’s more respect for the reader there too. For me as an emerging writer, it’s extremely beneficial to play with different forms, styles, voices, and perspectives and short stories allow the freedom to experiment and play.

Do you remember what that initial idea was for “Bruise and Shine”?

“Bruise and Shine” was the last story I wrote for my BFA program at UBC and I wanted to end with a story that had a lot more hope in it, to end the program on a brighter note.

It’s not that it’s not a bright piece, because it certainly has that hope – but also it’s very heavy as well. The centre of it is kind of something that’s dying, right?

Definitely. Though, even if it is something that’s darker, gloomier, or heavier in tone, it’s still this negotiation or resistance with that. A character’s willingness to push back against a heaviness can be testimony to the strength of their hope, no matter how dark the circumstances.

For the other things that you were working on, was there less of a movement towards light? Or did those stories start someplace light and move away from that?

It’s hard to say. During my undergrad I was working on many pieces, so it’s hard to draw a throughline. I’d just finished writing a piece that was eventually published in Pulp Literature called “Can-on-a-String” and I think that one had a certain aura. I think if the quality of light in that story had a colour, it would be purple. It was just very sunk down and deep and it maybe was a bit more humorous, but it stayed down. So with Bruise and Shine, I wanted to come back up.

Speaking of “Can-on-a String”, you have the line “my laughter and the attic and my sorrow next to the washer/dryer”. There’s something similar going on in “Bruise and Shine” with the tree, where the character’s interior comes out and manifests in the exterior world. Is that something that comes about naturally in the story, or do you have to think towards placing emotional and physical elements together?

I think it comes naturally.

I was reading a collection of letters between J.M. Coatzee and Paul Auster, and they were talking about the ways different readers’ brains work. Auster asked Coatzee “When you’re reading, do you care about what the room looks like?” and Coetzee says “No, I just think of the character in this space that almost doesn’t matter, it’s more of the container for the character’s emotion.”

That’s probably the worst misquote ever, but I think that’s where my brain sticks. It’s more focused on the quality of how a piece feels rather than the practical issues like what year it is or where the window is in relation to the chair. Of course there’s the Editor-Brain in my head, making sure that everything aligns with what I’m hoping to convey, but I love setting as an opportunity to destabilize or question the characters, or add to the overall mood of a piece.

And then how do you know when you’re finished with a piece of writing?

It’s funny, with this one I just assumed that it wasn’t going to win the Hinchcliffe prize, and so by the time I heard from The New Quarterly in September, I’d already started working on it again. I was literally on the computer working on it when I saw my email pop up that I had won it. In that case, this story was still growing.

I suppose a story is always growing, as long as you’re willing to work on it. But you can get to a point where you’ve just grown so much further past the story that you just decide you want to leave it behind and maybe that can mean it’s done too.

Or it gets awarded a prize, and it’s like “yeah, I guess this is where it’s sitting.”

What was it like to win the Peter Hinchcliffe Award?

I was so surprised that it won. The support of Pamela and Eleni, who submitted it for a Pushcart and the National Magazine Award, was extremely reaffirming for me. 

The dedication and love of Peter Hinchcliffe made that award, and now here I am as just one of the writers who have been raised up by that love and care. That’s very special to feel.