The doors of The Book Diner swing open today to welcome a fabulously talented American poet and fiction writer, Bethany Pope, who I had the good fortune to room with at St. Clementin Literary Festival in France in August 2014. At just 31, Bethany not only has a Ph.D., but also three published poetry collections. She has been the recipient of various awards for her critically acclaimed work which contains an explosive past within the shell of magisterially used poetic forms. Hailing from the Deep South, Bethany possesses the grace and wit of a belle, but refuses the subservience of tradition and is utterly herself – that is, one of the most fascinating, brave and gifted people I have ever met. As a rape survivor who has turned her experiences into powerful art, she is an inspiration on multiple levels and I am very proud to call her my friend and to interview her here.
Welcome to the Book Diner!
Can we take your order – coffee, tea or soda? Eggs sunny side up or over easy? Home fries, French toast or biscuit?
Cherry Pepsi Max and Trident bubblegum! [I can vouch for her addiction to both these substances from our short stay together!]
When did you realise you were a writer?
I knew it when I was a child. I tried to dictate a novel to my father when I was seven (he typed it onto the computer), but, being who we are, it didn’t go well and I kept all further urges secret for the next ten years. When I was a pre-teen and living in a South Carolina orphanage, I used to write poems (in secret, it had to be in secret if I wanted to avoid a beating for being ‘uppity’) and hide them in the mouth-shaped hole of an enormous live oak whose root-system resembled the body of a frog. I kept whatever books I was reading in there, too, wrapped in plastic. I did not want them to get confiscated and destroyed.
When I was a pre-teen and living in a South Carolina orphanage, I used to write poems (in secret, it had to be in secret if I wanted to avoid a beating for being ‘uppity’) and hide them in the mouth-shaped hole of an enormous live oak whose root-system resembled the body of a frog. I kept whatever books I was reading in there, too, wrapped in plastic. I did not want them to get confiscated and destroyed.
Bethany is a compelling reader.
Are there particular symptoms you think people should look out for if they suspect they may be coming down with Writer Syndrome and do you think there is any cure?
No cure. Or rather, the disease is the cure. You write or you die.
Can you tell us about your latest project?
I have just finished two major projects. The first is a rather gothic retelling of Gaston Leroux’s already rather gothic French novel, The Phantom of the Opera. It’s called Masqué [it’s now been published by Seren and you can check it out here]. I’ve skewed the perspectives a bit. Made Christine a bit less repugnant, less a fainting female ‘ideal,’ and I’ve explored, a little, the entitlement that comes with money and health. I’ve just finished editing that one. I have also recently completed a poetry manuscript (that has already been accepted by Lapwing Press). It’s composed of double-acrostic sonnet cycles and crowns – most of which are mythological in nature.
What inspired you to write it? Where do you generally draw your ideas from?
History. Herstory. Mystory. Mythstory. All poetry is a gift from the land of the dead. We just have to go down and get it.
All poetry is a gift from the land of the dead. We just have to go down and get it.
Can you talk to us about one or two of the characters from your latest work? How do your characters emerge?
This is more of a novel question, so I’ll take that route. I did not know that I was going to rewrite The Phantom of the Opera. I saw a picture (in my mind) of a middle-aged woman sitting in front of a three-paned Victorian Mirror. I 
started out by writing what I saw:
The features in the mirror are a little blurred, they don’t look like they belong to me. The flaws in the glass of the right and left wings (beneath the fat and leering putti that glower from the frame) make the sides seem warped. The glass bulges out so that my cheeks might belong to a skull, they look scraped to bone. Only the front view is clear, recognizable, a dark-eyed, dark-haired woman who must, every night, resemble a girl. Not just any girl, the black-eyed thing I was twenty years ago. It’s funny how much a change in angle, in perspective, warps something that should be so simple. It’s funny how stasis can look so beautiful, so calm, at a distance and be so monstrous up close.
The rest of the story spooled out from that.
When it came to writing Erik, I tapped into what it felt like to be absolutely hated for something that you could not control. I went back to the orphanage. I was the kid who was beaten and locked (for hours) beneath the understairs cupboard for being ‘ugly.’ For using ‘big words’. If something like that happens to you, if you spend a good chunk of your life breathing in the scent of dust and ammonia, you have to find a productive use for it.
When it came to writing Erik, I tapped into what it felt like to be absolutely hated for something that you could not control. I went back to the orphanage. I was the kid who was beaten and locked (for hours) beneath the understairs cupboard for being ‘ugly.’ For using ‘big words.’ If something like that happens to you, if you spend a good chunk of your life breathing in the scent of dust and ammonia, you have to find a productive use for it.
Is there a particular theme or message you’d like readers to take away from this book?
Love is harder than it looks, but very worth it.
What kind of writing process do you have? Are you very disciplined in terms of having a set work routine and doing a lot of planning, or are you more of a pantster? (You fly by the seat of them – Zinkologism.)
I am very methodical. I do not respond well to change. Every day, I get up at around 6.30. I spend a luxurious fifteen minutes watching my husband drying himself after his shower. Then we have breakfast, get dressed and I walk him to work, pushing my bike so that we can have an uninterrupted conversation. Afterwards, I cycle to my gym, find ‘my’ stepper (it is the one furthest from the numerous television sets), unpack my supplies (books, soda, chewing gum, paper, mechanical pencils, tablet, headphones) and I get down to work for the next four hours. I read for two hours. Then I write for two hours. I read a novel and a poetry collection every day. Textbooks take longer. I do about fifteen minutes worth of work on the weights, then cycle to the grocery store for the day’s shopping. Then I come home, have lunch, and spend the rest of the afternoon editing and reading (with occasional internet breaks and sometimes a brief nap). I do this every day. Sunday’s I add church or a visit with the in-laws. Change throws me a bit. I have difficulty coping. When we moved house the last time, I was anxious for two months and got very little done, but I think that I am settling in now.
I cycle to my gym, find ‘my’ stepper (it is the one furthest from the numerous television sets), unpack my supplies (books, soda, chewing gum, paper, mechanical pencils, tablet, headphones) and I get down to work for the next four hours. I read for two hours. Then I write for two hours. I read a novel and a poetry collection every day.
Do you write longhand or on a computer or both? Do you believe that writing method makes a difference to style?
I write prose directly onto the computer (it’s faster for me to type) and I draft my poetry onto a series of lined notebooks. My handwriting is horrible. I need all the help I can get. It definitely makes a difference. You have to draft double-acrostics onto paper because the lines run down the length of both margins and that would be time-consuming to type.
How do you approach research?
I am omnivorous. I read everything from pulp to ‘high’ literature, from poetry to neurology. I enjoy everything for what it is. Research just kind of happens. If I find a subject that hooks me, I suck it dry like the flesh from an orange. Then it settles in me and waits. Sometimes for a week, sometimes for a year. Eventually it surfaces.
Do you write longhand or on a computer or both? Do you believe that writing method makes a difference to style?
I write prose directly onto the computer (it’s faster for me to type) and I draft my poetry onto a series of lined notebooks. My handwriting is horrible. I need all the help I can get. It definitely makes a difference. You have to draft double-acrostics onto paper because the lines run down the length of both margins and that would be time-consuming to type.
How do you approach research?
I am omnivorous. I read everything from pulp to ‘high’ literature, from poetry to neurology. I enjoy everything for what it is. Research just kind of happens. If I find a subject that hooks me, I suck it dry like the flesh from an orange. Then it settles in me and waits. Sometimes for a week, sometimes for a year. Eventually it surfaces. Recently, I’ve been reading a lot of psychology. I have no idea what is going to come from this, but it should be fun.
How do you deal with autobiographical elements in your work? Do you worry about offending people or baring your soul too much?
A great deal of my work is autobiographical. My first two books were blatantly about my family. They have read them. Nothing on this earth stays buried. Everything hidden will eventually be revealed. If the skeletons are going to come out of the closet (And they shall. Listen. They’re restless already. Rattling sockets. Rattling hinges …), you might as well have some say in how it happens. You might as well try to reveal its beauty, as well as the truth. I could not give one over-ripe fig about offending people. Of course, I like people to like my work. I’m human. I crave affirmation. But that’s secondary to the goal. Writers play a game of ages. What offends this generation might be revelatory to the next. That’s assuming a lot, but there you go.
My first two books were blatantly about my family. They have read them. Nothing on this earth stays buried. Everything hidden will eventually be revealed. If the skeletons are going to come out of the closet (And they shall. Listen. They’re restless already. Rattling sockets. Rattling hinges …), you might as well have some say in how it happens. You might as well try to reveal its beauty, as well as the truth.
What’s your editing process?
Hours and hours and hours with a red pencil and occasional input from my husband. He always has really wonderful suggestions and I always, without fail, snipe at him for pointing them out. Then I sulk awhile. Eventually, I make the changes.
What advice would you offer to writers just starting out?
Read. Don’t write yet. Gorge on books. Bury yourself in piles of them. Do not surface until you’re running out of oxygen. Eventually, you will have to write. You won’t be able to keep it in any more. Then, feel free to pick up a pen.
What would you say are the toughest things and the best things about being a writer?
The wait between finishing the ‘final’ draft and reading the reviews. I include submissions in this space. It’s a vast gaping maw of time. The best thing to do is read a lot and find another project.
How do you handle the rejections and bad reviews all writers experience?
I’ve not had any bad reviews, touch wood and thank God. They’ve all been good. I have had rejections. You can’t take those personally. They aren’t personal. It’s mainly a taste thing. And I’ve worked as an editor, so I can say that the best thing to do in response is either be 1 silent and submit again (after a few months) or reply with thanks and kindness. Editors are human. Being polite won’t get you published (only your work can get you published), but it will keep people from hating you and that is nice. Eventually, the acceptances will outweigh the rejections.
How do you deal with the Inner Critic who likes to tell us our work is worthless?
I don’t have one of those. Possibly because I’ve had so many outer voices telling me the same thing. I do get insecure, but not about my work. It’s much more existential than that. Here I go again being far too open for my own good: when I lived in the orphanage, I was repeatedly raped. That is an annihilating experience. The purpose of rape (as far as there can be a purpose) is a means for the rapist to prove their reality by so completely dominating another person that their victim ceases to exist (even inside of their own head) as a full human being. For a long time afterwards, I experienced such extreme disassociation that I thought of myself in the third person. My thoughts sounded like this, ‘It needs to go get lunch while it can, before — gets back and beats it.’ Basically, rape turned me into Gollum. I am now, after a great many years, and a great deal of effort, sure in my Self and secure in my vocation. I got my ‘I’ back.
Still, that void does surface sometimes and I panic. My writing, my books, are proof (physical, irrefutable) of my existence. It is my single most solid connection to God. I do the best that I can with it and I hope that people like it, but I don’t anguish over its reception because the fact that it exists is enough.
When I lived in the orphanage, I was repeatedly raped. That is an annihilating experience. The purpose of rape (as far as there can be a purpose) is a means for the rapist to prove their reality by so completely dominating another person that their victim ceases to exist (even inside of their own head) as a full human being. For a long time afterwards, I experienced such extreme disassociation that I thought of myself in the third person. My thoughts sounded like this, ‘It needs to go get lunch while it can, before — gets back and beats it.’ Basically, rape turned me into Gollum. I am now, after a great many years, and a great deal of effort, sure in my Self and secure in my vocation. I got my ‘I’ back.
What are your feelings about the growth in self-publishing? Would you advise emerging writers to self-publish or pursue a traditional book deal?
Call me stodgy, but I think that traditional publishing is the way to go. It’s ultimately a lot less work. Publishers promote. Writers still have to sell themselves, but the scope is much wider. Having said that, I did try it, early on, with a novella and it went rather well. I don’t judge people who do exclusively self-publish. I will buy the books if they get good reviews.
Who has offered you the most encouragement and support in terms of your writing career?
This is a brief list, far from comprehensive, containing writers whose work is well worth reading (although everyone reading this blog has probably already bought their books): Sarah Kennedy, Menna Elfyn, Tiffany Atkinson, Robert Nesbit, George Szirtes, Helen Ivory, Agnes Cserhati, David Morley and Matthew Francis. Again, I have been incredibly, undeservedly blessed when it comes to my writing support group. My post-grad universities, Trinity College, Carmarthen, and Aberystwyth University, provided invaluable support. Again, I also have to make mention of my beautiful husband. He is a keen editor with a fierce eye. He keeps my nose to the grindstone and ensures that all of my blades are sharp.
If you could fly off to any era on The Book Diner Magic Time Travel Banquette, where would you go and why?
I am a creature of my time. We all are. If I had the option, though (and the language skills), I would pop on back to Padua while Giotto was working on his luminous, numinous frescoes in The Scrovegni Chapel. I would worm my way in around the scaffolds and noblemen and watch him paint. I would stay until the frescoes had dried. I would love to see them fresh, before age and two world wars had maimed their beauty. Then I could die happy. Or, you know, come back and write about them.
If you could write anywhere in the world for a while, where would you head?
Florence. Though, you know, Swindon has been pretty good for me in terms of getting things done.
Do you like cats or dogs or both? (Writers are known for being pet crazy, so let’s pander.)
Dogs. Definitely dogs. I am happiest in a big pile of puppies – both young and old, they are all puppies to me! We are renting now, so I can’t have one of my very own. I can’t even have a rat (they are almost dogs!). I have to make do with borrowing Megan, my dog-in-law, a very lady-like springer spaniel. I have also been feeding some foxes. I really love foxes.
Complete the following sentences. Life is like … I am like … Writing is like …
Life is like a maze, in the centre there is treasure. Or a monster. Probably both.
I am like a fig tree growing through the socket of a skull.
Writing is like oxygen: it kills me, but until it does, it keeps me alive.
Life is like a maze, in the centre there is treasure. Or a monster. Probably both.
If you could choose to have a different creative gift, what would it be?
I wouldn’t.
What plans have you got for future projects and events?
I have a few readings lined up and I’m always looking for more!
Where can people find out more about you and your work?
My website, Bethanywpope.com. As an added bonus, it has links to my publishers. There are loads of good writers out there. It’s easy to get sucked down the rabbit hole.
Is there anything else we can get you?
A refill. One two-litre bottle was not enough! [This, I believe!]
Do you have any questions for The Book Diner?
Which has been your favourite interview of this series? I’m dying to know.
You, my darling, of course! Though they’ve all had their highlights.
Thanks so much for joining us, Bethany – please call again!
[This interview was originally featured in 2014 and I’m grateful for Bethany’s permission to reproduce it here.]
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