The Tim Ferriss Show - #479: Mary Karr — The Master of Memoir on Creative Process and Finding Gifts in the Suffering
Episode Date: November 12, 2020"For me, the solution to fear is curiosity and presence. I can’t be terrified and curious at the same time." — Mary KarrMary Karr (@marykarrlit) is the author of three award-winning,... bestselling memoirs: The Liars’ Club, Cherry, and Lit. She is also the author of The Art of Memoir, which lays bare her own process as she breaks down the craft of memoir, and Tropic of Squalor, her latest volume of poetry.A Guggenheim fellow in poetry, Karr has won Pushcart Prizes for both verse and essays. Other grants include the Whiting Award, PEN/Martha Albrand Award, and a Radcliffe/Bunting Institute Fellowship. Karr is also the Peck Professor of Literature at Syracuse University.Please enjoy!*This episode is brought to you by Wealthfront! Wealthfront pioneered the automated investing movement, sometimes referred to as ‘robo-advising,’ and they currently oversee $20 billion of assets for their clients. It takes about three minutes to sign up, and then Wealthfront will build you a globally diversified portfolio of ETFs based on your risk appetite and manage it for you at an incredibly low cost. Smart investing should not feel like a rollercoaster ride. Let the professionals do the work for you. Go to Wealthfront.com/Tim and open a Wealthfront account today, and you’ll get your first $5,000 managed for free, for life. Wealthfront will automate your investments for the long term. Get started today at Wealthfront.com/Tim.*This episode is also brought to you by ShipStation. Do you sell stuff online? Then you know what a pain the shipping process is. ShipStation was created to make your life easier. Whether you’re selling on eBay, Amazon, Shopify, or over 100 other popular selling channels, ShipStation lets you access all of your orders from one simple dashboard, and it works with all of the major shipping carriers, locally and globally, including FedEx, UPS, and USPS. Tim Ferriss Show listeners get to try ShipStation free for 60 days by using promo code TIM. There’s no risk, and you can start your free trial without even entering your credit card info. Just visit ShipStation.com, click on the microphone at the top of the homepage, and type in TIM!*This episode is also brought to you by Helix Sleep! Helix was selected as the #1 best overall mattress pick of 2020 by GQ magazine, Wired, Apartment Therapy, and many others. With Helix, there’s a specific mattress for each and every body’s unique taste. Just take their quiz—only two minutes to complete—that matches your body type and sleep preferences to the perfect mattress for you. They have a 10-year warranty, and you get to try it out for a hundred nights, risk free. They’ll even pick it up from you if you don’t love it. And now, to my dear listeners, Helix is offering up to 200 dollars off all mattress orders plus two free pillows at HelixSleep.com/Tim.***If you enjoy the podcast, would you please consider leaving a short review on Apple Podcasts/iTunes? It takes less than 60 seconds, and it really makes a difference in helping to convince hard-to-get guests. I also love reading the reviews!For show notes and past guests, please visit tim.blog/podcast.Sign up for Tim’s email newsletter (“5-Bullet Friday”) at tim.blog/friday.For transcripts of episodes, go to tim.blog/transcripts.Discover Tim’s books: tim.blog/books.Follow Tim:Twitter: twitter.com/tferriss Instagram: instagram.com/timferrissFacebook: facebook.com/timferriss YouTube: youtube.com/timferrissPast guests on The Tim Ferriss Show include Jerry Seinfeld, Hugh Jackman, Dr. Jane Goodall, LeBron James, Kevin Hart, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Jamie Foxx, Matthew McConaughey, Esther Perel, Elizabeth Gilbert, Terry Crews, Sia, Yuval Noah Harari, Malcolm Gladwell, Madeleine Albright, Cheryl Strayed, Jim Collins, Mary Karr, Maria Popova, Sam Harris, Michael Phelps, Bob Iger, Edward Norton, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Neil Strauss, Ken Burns, Maria Sharapova, Marc Andreessen, Neil Gaiman, Neil de Grasse Tyson, Jocko Willink, Daniel Ek, Kelly Slater, Dr. Peter Attia, Seth Godin, Howard Marks, Dr. Brené Brown, Eric Schmidt, Michael Lewis, Joe Gebbia, Michael Pollan, Dr. Jordan Peterson, Vince Vaughn, Brian Koppelman, Ramit Sethi, Dax Shepard, Tony Robbins, Jim Dethmer, Dan Harris, Ray Dalio, Naval Ravikant, Vitalik Buterin, Elizabeth Lesser, Amanda Palmer, Katie Haun, Sir Richard Branson, Chuck Palahniuk, Arianna Huffington, Reid Hoffman, Bill Burr, Whitney Cummings, Rick Rubin, Dr. Vivek Murthy, Darren Aronofsky, and many more.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.
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Hello, boys and girls, ladies and germs. This is Tim Ferriss, and welcome to another episode
of The Tim Ferriss Show. My guest today is Mary Carr, at Mary Carr Lit on Twitter. She's
the author of three award-winning bestselling memoirs, The Liar's Club, Cherry, and Lit.
She's also the author of The Art of Memoir, one of my absolute favorites, which lays bare
her own process as she breaks down the craft of memoir. And Tropic of Squalor, her latest volume of poetry.
A Guggenheim Fellow in Poetry, Carr has won Pushcart Prizes for both verse and essays.
Other grants include the Whiting Award, Penn Martha Allbrand Award,
and a Radcliffe Bunting Institute Fellowship.
Carr is also a Peck Professor of Literature at Syracuse University.
You can find her online at marycarr.com, on Twitter at marykarrlit.
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At this altitude, I can run flat out for a half mile
before my hands start shaking.
Can I ask you a personal question?
Now would seem an appropriate time.
What if I did the opposite?
I'm a cybernetic organism, living tissue over metal endoskeleton.
Mary, welcome to the show. Hey, Tim. Thanks for having me.
And I appreciate you putting me at ease when I mentioned that I have copious notes in front of me.
That's usually an indication that I am nervous.
Not you.
You do this all the time.
You're going to kill it.
It's going to go great.
I'm convinced.
Thank you.
And you reassured me by saying, I make really good waffles.
That's what I do.
I'm like a Nona.
I'm like a Nona.
You've got to think of me as a Nona out here in Podcastville.
Let's rewind the clock as a first step in Podcastville. And maybe we can talk about
Nonas in the family lineage of sorts. And I want to talk about, or have you speak to,
a guy redoing your mother's kitchen and holding up a tile. Could you perhaps elaborate on that, please?
Yeah, yeah.
Right after my first memoir was published, we were having my mother's kitchen retiled.
My sister and I were there.
Yeah, and the tile dude pries off a tile, and he holds it up, and it has a little round toilet.
And he looks at my little fluffy-haired, gray-haired mother and says,
Miss Carr, this looks like a bullet hole.
And my sister says, Mom, isn't that where you shot at Daddy?
And she says, No, that's where I shot at Larry.
Over there is where I shot at your Daddy.
So people ask me why I wanted to be a memoirist.
I'm like, Why would you make stuff up when that's who your mother is?
So for those who have no context, I'd like to provide a bit more context.
Where was this kitchen or where is this kitchen for that matter?
This kitchen is in Southeast Texas. It's a town that I write about to protect the mayor and the school principal and the people who didn't sign off on what I said about them. I call it Leachfield,
but it's really, it's east of Port Arthur, Texas, a small town in east Texas. I call it the ringworm
belt. Which I've also heard you describe as a swampy town. So moisture, humidity, ringworm,
as a former wrestler, I can say those things combine to produce ringworm. Exactly. Yes. No, that's it. And industrial, like a lot of oil refineries all around. So,
not Paris in the 20s, I guess is the way I would put it.
Now, I'm going to hop around like Memento the movie, if I must. And I must because that is my
way. And you've written extensively about your childhood.
You had, in many respects, an extremely difficult, painful childhood and will probably unwind
some of that. Now, you've written extensively about it, and you've also mentioned about writing
memoirs. And if this is a misquote, please call me out. Quote, I've said it's hard. Here's how hard.
Everybody I know who wades deep enough into memories waters drowns a little.
And certainly in your book, you paint a high resolution picture of just how painful that
can be. And certainly an element might be catharsis, but it is painful. And I would love for you to speak to the catalyst for beginning to
publish this type of work, write and then publish this type of work.
The publishing is nothing compared to the writing, I think. Publishing for me was great
because they gave me money and I didn't have any. So that was good. But yeah, I think I had
a flamethrower on my ass. Can I say ass on your show?
You can say ass. Not only are three-letter words allowed, four-letter are allowed as well.
Oh, there we go. You know, I was a weird little kid and I was just,
my mother was capital N nervous and married seven times and twice to my daddy. And both my parents
drank hard. It was Texas. Everybody was armed. And we were a loud, combative house.
So I loved my parents.
I mean, that's what I should say.
I don't think anybody who's read anything I've written about them would challenge that.
But it was not a safe childhood.
And yes, it had its fair share of blows.
I mean, I always, you know, look, I was born in the richest country in the world.
My skin color is something the whole country privileges.
I'm, you know, I'm a college professor.
You know, I grew up skinny and my teeth came in relatively straight and I have a lot of
advantages.
So whatever I went through, a lot of people and people I grew up with and loved had it
way worse and didn't make it. So I think I was haunted. I was a haunted little girl. I tried
to kill myself when I was a kid, when I was still in grade school. I took a bunch of aspirin. It
said pain relief. And I thought, okay, this is what I want. And so I didn't have a choice. I was, in some ways,
not having a choice was a lucky thing because I went into therapy very early. I managed to get,
after leaving school without a diploma, I managed to weasel my way into college and had a really
kind professor and his wife kind of took me under their wing and urged me to go into therapy when I
was 19. And so I was sitting in rooms talking to, you know, codependent social workers starting when
I was a kid and all of that helped. But I guess I've been really blessed with a lot of outside
help. I'm a big, big fan of the mental health professional and the librarians
and English teachers and those kind souls you meet along the way.
So you have kind souls that you meet in person. You mentioned a few,
and I want to talk more about weaseling into college in a few minutes, but I've read
a lot about your reading, if that makes sense.
Yeah, I read a lot, yeah.
Some might envision in their minds that childhood you described as a family of illiterates,
nobody picked up anything other than People magazine, but that was not the case.
No, the huge advantage, yeah.
Describe that a little bit. And also, if I could tag on an additional piece of that question, I've heard you describe finding and reading poetry as Eucharistic, and I would love for you to just speak to that as well.
Yeah, I started reading poetry when you're a little kid,
but you can disappear down a valley of Winnie the Pooh or Charlotte's Web. And in some ways, the poets I read, I think poetry really captured me early. And my mother, who was a painter,
had gone to art school in New York and was
enormously well-read. There were books all over my house in a place for the nearest bookstore.
The bookstores in my town sold Bibles as big as station wagons and little dashboard icons.
But there wasn't a lot of literature to buy. But I found a home in the
little library, it was a three-block walk from my house, and I could disappear down the snowy
valley of a book and I was somewhere else. And so poetry saved my life. I mean, my best friends
were poets. I think the way people worship saints and, you know, have crosses blessed, I felt that way.
And if you think about the idea of the Eucharist, we weren't Catholic, we were atheists.
My father was a union organizer and said, you know, church is a trick on poor people to get their money away from them.
And my mother was a kind of Marxist lady who was very smart and just a little bit of a loose cannon. So we
were not churchy in the Bible Belt. And yeah, when you read a poem, you put it in the meat
of your body. I mean, you're a body person. I'm a body person. I feel like you take somebody else's suffering into you and it changes you. It
transforms you. I had this idea of being a poet starting when I was five or six years old,
that I wanted to be a poet. It was the strangest thing because there were no poets around. No one
I knew had ever met a poet. What was the feeling that elicited that desire? Was it just the
tangible brilliance in some type of wordplay? Was it a kinesthetic reaction to the aesthetics
of certain poets? What was it that produced that desire?
You said it better than I could, Tim. You win. I mean, it's not a joke that I used the Riverside Shakespeare as a booster seat.
That's literally what happened.
When I had to reach the table, I sat on this giant edition of Shakespeare my mother had
that was very water-stained.
And it was a book that I read very early, and I started memorizing not Shakespeare poems,
but the speeches from Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth and Richard III.
And I would memorize these speeches and say them to my hungover mother. And she liked it.
It was something she encouraged.
I got her attention that way.
She was a very, to say she was not nurturing.
I mean, Lady Macbeth is probably not nurturing
the way my mother was not nurturing.
I mean, her disinterest in being a mother was profound.
Let's just put it that way.
She once said to me early, when I was getting sober, she was supposed to watch
my little boy who was then a toddler when I went to an AA meeting. And I came back one day and she
was like, she said, I can't keep him. He's just too, I mean, I was gone for an hour and a half.
She said, I just don't do kids. And I was so mad. I said, mother, you had
four children. What do you mean you don't do kids? You don't cook, you don't clean,
you haven't had a job in 40 years. What exactly do you bring to the party?
And she thought for a minute and she said, I'm a lot of fun to be with.
Yeah, I forgot to do anything for any other living human being, but I am fun to be with,
which was not untrue. So I guess I had an aesthetic sense. She played music, she played opera,
she played blues. Janis Joplin grew up in my hometown, or rather I grew up in her hometown
since she was older. Her brother would be in my high school carpool. So there was a lot of music
I listened to. And I think poetry was part of that, the form, the shape. You know what it felt like, Tim? I felt
less lonely. I was a lonely person. And I would read these poems and I felt like someone
understands me. Someone knows what it feels like to occupy this body. And I remember trying to tell other little kids
in my neighborhood about it, about poems that I liked. There's an E.E. Cummings poem I once tried
to tell some girls about in my school. You know, it's just spring and the world is mud luscious
and the little lame balloon man whistles far and we and and Eddie and Bill come running, and it's spring,
and the world is a puddle wonderful, and the goat-footed balloon man whistles far and we,
something like that. I can't even remember it, but it's so long ago.
That's pretty good for not remembering.
I can remember little bits of it. But I remember these girls in my school just going,
what are you talking about? That doesn't make any sense. And I'm like, what about it doesn't make any sense?
You know, it's about it's being spring and it's, and she's like, well, what is the mud luscious?
Like, that's not even a word. I'm like, no, it's like muddy and luscious and delicious.
And it's like, how is mud delicious? You know, it's like, like, no no, y'all aren't getting it. And I thought they were
messing with me. It seemed so obvious to me how great this was. So I learned to shut up about it
very early. By third, fourth grade, I learned just don't. You like this stuff. Nobody else.
Your mother likes it. Your sister likes it. Your daddy likes it. Nobody else is going to like it.
You shut up. One expression that I think was in The Art of Memoir, I've read it in other interviews,
and again, I'm probably going to paraphrase here, but that poetry
should disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed.
Yes, I wish that were my line. Isn't that a great line?
It's so good. Where is that from? Or do you recall where you learned it? Yes, I know vaguely where it's from, but I can't remember the guy's name. You can Google it.
It's- We'll find it.
Early 20th century, maybe 1920s to 1950 journalist guy. So I'm sorry I don't cite him. I wish I could
take credit for it. But yeah, all art should disturb the comfortable and comfort that's disturbed, and all therapy should, and most foods. It's not a bad goal
to shoot poor at the beginning of a day. How did you weasel into college?
How did I weasel into college?
Flashback, because I would imagine that there's some listeners like me who are just in their mind's eye seeing this
little girl sitting on Shakespeare and out of focus behind her head in the same kitchen
are bullet holes in the tile, imagining the experience and the experiences, although truly you endured some horrific, horrific things, but wondering how does someone in that position get into college?
Especially when they're missing, at least based on some of my homework, for instance, 87 days of school in the sixth grade, things like this.
How on earth does someone get into college?
Was it your wielding of words and an essay that just
unlocked it? Was it something else? I won an essay contest when I was in high school,
I remember. I think it was from the National Council of Teachers of English. And I had some
professors. Actually, my mother had gone back to graduate school and got me a recommendation from this teacher of Chinese history who felt me
up, sexually assaulted me in his office, and then wrote me a recommendation. And so maybe that
helped. Actually, what I think helped when I look back on it was I opposed the Vietnam War and I
wore black armbands on moratorium day. And that's the kind of thing
that where I grew up, I remember my coach, the football coach pinning me up physically,
like pinning me up against the lockers by the front of my shirt and holding me against the
lockers and threatening me essentially to take my black armband off. So I did things like I didn't
stand up for the American flag.
I mean, I don't know.
I thought I was Colin Kaepernick or something.
It didn't win me any friends.
Let me just say that.
But I later found out when I got to my school,
and I had to have a lot of jobs to go there because it was a private school.
It was McAllister College.
It's a very good school.
And I later found out that the assistant principal of my
high school who had thrown me out a lot for things like my skirt was too short. One time he threw me
out for not having a bra on. And I said, what makes you think I don't have a bra on? And then
he called in the gym teacher to look under my shirt and confirm. In fact, I didn't have a bra. So I was just, I was a pain in his ass.
And I later found out that he called McAllister and told these people in the admissions office that I was a bad citizen, that I wouldn't stand up for the Pledge of Allegiance and stuff. Well,
they hear this old redneck assistant principal and they hear about this little girl who's doing
this and they think, she sounds great. She's perfect. She's perfect.
So I actually think my misbehavior that got me in so much trouble and made him hate me so much.
I once had an algebra teacher reveal to me, he really is after you.
Like, you're not paranoid.
Like, he wants you out of here.
And so I actually think, I don't know how I got in.
I don't know how I got in.
It was clearly a mistake.
I made a D in art, you know, my senior year.
And my mother was a painter.
So, I mean, all I had to do was slap art on something and I would have gotten, you know, a B.
And I couldn't handle the pressure.
It was too hard.
So I don't know how I got to college, but once I got to college, I've got to say, I really, well, everybody else was
complaining about their parents and the, you know, I don't know that you, that you couldn't,
weren't supposed to smoke pot in your room or whatever they were mad about. I was like,
this is great. This is all these people read books and they'll talk to
you about them. And I made straight A's and I got a scholarship and it was just shocking
to me that I might succeed at something.
What about the environment? Aside from people who read books and are willing to listen,
if it was the environment, maybe there are other variables led to the straight A's was
it being outside of your home environment like what was the recipe that contributed to that
sort of conversion of sorts from D for defiant to straight A maybe you were still defiant but
you got straight A's I wasn't defiant I was I wanted to please people. I mean, I think I had a lot of jobs. I had one of
those hairnet wearing jobs at the food service where I had to go in at like four in the morning
and cook scrambled eggs and wash dishes and stuff. And so I think in some ways I had to organize my
time, but I had been living with a bunch of drug dealers before I went to college out in
Southern California. We
moved out there initially, we lived in cars and stuff. And then we got some, a couple of us were
slinging dope, mostly pot and psychedelics, although one guy had robbed a drugstore. And
it was just, it was, I was hitchhiking one day from Laguna Beach to San Clemente where my friends were surfing.
And I got picked up by a guy who really scared me.
I thought he was going to rape me.
And I had to jump out on the side of the road.
And it's interesting because there were six of us who lived in that house when I left home.
And of the six, four went to jail.
And two of those were dead before they were 20. And only me and one other guy, who's still my best friend, Dooney, wound up getting sober.
And we both kind of made it, quote unquote, him in construction in Southern California and
me doing whatever it is that I'm supposed to be doing. So I was scared. I was scared by how
dark things that I brought to darkness with me. You get to Southern California from where I grew
up and you're like, where has all this been? Everybody's orthodontured and people's teeth
are great and nobody's missing any digits or anything.
They, nobody's, you know, everybody looks so amazing and everything's so beautiful.
And you're like, God, I've never seen anything like this.
Golly.
And so you would think everything would have been great.
But, you know, as you know, when you have a lot of trauma growing up, you bring the
darkness with you.
So I had this idea after I was hitchhiking and I got scared. I had to jump out of this. I tried to, went to jump out of this
guy's car. It was a Volkswagen that had no backseat and had a bunch of garbage in it. And
I pulled up on the handle of the door and it just went floppy round and round and round, like it was locked and I couldn't get out.
And so the window was open, stuck open, wouldn't go up, wouldn't go down. And I stuck my arm out
the side of the window and opened it from the outside and jumped out and went down this
embankment on the side of the road. And I was really scared. I was, you know how those moments of trauma are.
I was scared like I had been when I was a little kid and there were bullets flying around my house.
And I thought, I know, you know, I'll go to college in Minnesota. And I mean, it's just,
that was the other thing. Everybody in Minnesota is so damn nice. Have you ever been there?
I have. I have spent time there.
I couldn't, I used to make a joke about my call, an unkind joke.
I'd say, if you're not a virgin when you get here, you will be when you leave.
It was just, everybody was so damn nice.
Oh, my God.
I'd never seen such nice people in my life.
And still, I got there, and I did extremely well for two years and I won all these prizes.
And then I dropped out. I couldn't handle the prosperity. I couldn't handle the success.
So I was a long way. It took me a while to finally start getting sober, I guess. I guess
that was a lot of my problem. Which we will definitely talk about. I want to dig into that. And I also am going to ask you just to plant a seed about how those mentors initially convinced you to go to therapy. But
first, I want to bounce around chronologically. Because from these origins, I've,
in the process of doing my homework, read about your graduate seminar at Syracuse described as
hyper-selective. And you're certainly a writer and poet of great note at this point, right?
Lots of people know who you are. Lots of people love your work. Lots of people love you
describing the craft and process that goes into your work. How do you select the students
who make it into your graduate seminar, or how did you? I mean, I do it. I wish they would just
give me a wand and I got to pick all my people. But interestingly, I've been teaching there, gosh,
30 years, something like that. I only teach in the fall, and I go and I commute from New York City.
So we do it based on the work. We do it solely based on the writing. And some years, George
Saunders, my colleague George Saunders has gotten so famous that he attracts a lot of people and
have a lot of people who teach there, Arthur Flowers,
Junot Diaz has taught there. We have gotten up to 1,200 applications for 12 positions.
Just a quick thanks to one of our sponsors and we'll be right back to the show.
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You end up with these 12 gems of assorted colors and kinds.
Yes.
What is day one, class one? What does that look like?
Oh, you're thinking when I teach my memoir class. Yeah, well, I used to do this thing. Yeah. That's so funny. I used to do this thing where I
would stage a fight in my class with someone who was opposite from me. And so let's say,
like my colleague, George Saunders, who is just the sweetest guy. I can't even tell you. I was
in the car with him once and there was a bug on his shirt. And I was like,
George, there's a big beetle on your shirt. And he'd be like, well, he has to be somewhere.
I'd be like, kill it. And he's like this Tibetan Buddhist with this amazing practice,
just the sweetest guy. So George comes in and starts arguing with me that my classroom is in fact his classroom. This is in front of all the students.
In front of all the students. And for them, it's the first day of school and it's like having their
parents fight. And I script it so that I say only nice conciliatory things. I back up, he walks forward, he's bigger than I am. And then it ends
with him throwing the papers up and telling me to go fuck myself or something. Or telling me to
go hang. Maybe, I don't know if you can say the F word. Can you say the F word?
F word is not only allowed, but endorsed since I grew up on Long Island. You're in good company.
I feel so much better. Just telling
me to go fuck myself. And then we asked the students to write. So let's say there are 17,
18 students in this class, 20, somewhere between 15 and 22. And they're all smart,
and they're all young. They were all incredibly juiced on adrenaline and cortisol because they were scared and it's a public scene and they don't really know each other that well and they don't know us that well.
So they're all extremely alert.
They're hypervigilant.
And we asked them to write down what happens and everybody writes something just a little different.
Interestingly, people will describe me in very aggressive terms.
Like even though I'm the one backing up and I'm saying, well, I can clear out during the break,
George, but like, I don't understand why you're so upset. And he'll say, you don't understand why
I'm so, I mean, and he walks forwards and I'm backing up and my head is down and I'm doing
every conciliatory gesture I can think of.
And people will say, you know, she stood her ground like a bulldog, or she had military
strength facing off against him. And one year I did it with my student assistant who was
an undergraduate, just a beautiful young track star, Betsy. And Betsy just threw her papers up in the
air and was screeching at me. Well, she's this kid and here I am, this professor with fancy clothes
in a position of power. So people would, in that class of undergraduates, assume that I had done
horrible things to Betsy. In one class, there was a young woman.
One of the ruses I set up is that I leave my cell phone on so I can start to argue with George
before he comes in and then ask the students, how often did he call? How long between each call?
And ask them to guess things or remember things about time. And some people, he calls three times. Some people
say he called once, some people four times. So all those details are very influenced by who they
are. The young woman with sickle cell anemia will have this enormous compassion for me because I'll
say, I have to leave my phone on. I'm waiting for medical results. And she'll assume I'm waiting
to hear if I have some awful ailment. And she sees George as a complete beast and me as this woman,
perhaps ill, who dragged herself to class while everybody else in the class thinks,
what a diva. She's answering her phone in the middle of class. She can't wait an hour to get medical results. I mean, come on. So there are always people in class who have those perfect memories.
I remember one kid, often they're musicians. This kid was a jazz saxophone player who was
very famous in Brooklyn for giving these amazing house parties. I think he made a living giving house parties for
like, I don't know, years. So this kid had this amazing memory. We had a script and he remembered
the script exactly. He remembered what George had on. He remembered where we stood. He remembered
that I backed up every step. And then when he wrote it, he wrote it exactly as it happened. He didn't miss anything.
And he said, George was the aggressor, but I wonder what she'd done to make him act that way.
I guess the purpose of the exercise is for you to realize that you remember through a filter of who
you are. Memory is not a computer. It's not a perfect storage system. Obviously, even these fine minds
of these young people, very alert and paying attention in their first class and wanting to
get everything right and do well, misremember. And what I want them to think about is how
they are not just perceiving things, but beaming the world, the landscape into being
with whoever they are inside. It's important as a writer of anything to realize what kind
of filters you're strapping on that prevents you from seeing what's going on.
I would imagine that is an opening exercise that a lot of your students remember, speaking of memory, for a very, very long time. What other exercises or aspects of your teaching, it could be in any setting, do many of your students remember or have stick out for them, would you imagine? I think a lot of practice things, a lot of, I think it's important as a writer or as in anything
to develop, you know, habits. I mean, you talk about this and for our body, for our work week,
you've developed a lot of practices in your life to shape your life so that you were kind of
operating, you know, to constantly be growing
and developing. And so things like keeping a commonplace book, just keeping a notebook where
you write down beautiful pieces of language. What is a commonplace book? That is where you
capture the sort of beautiful turns of phrase that you encounter?
Yeah, things you read. So you might copy poems. You might copy over here is something you
ever heard on the street. There was a guy standing on my street. This is like a couple of years ago
when I first moved into this apartment, screaming murder or suicide at the top of his lungs. And
everybody was walking around the street, walking around him.
And it was early in the morning. And I walked up to him and I said, excuse me, sir.
He was screaming murder or suicide, murder or suicide. And I went up to him and said,
sir, isn't there like a third alternative? Like, isn't there a door number three? And that little encounter I wrote down, but
things I overheard-
Well, hold on, hold on. That's too much of a cliffhanger. So what happened when you said that?
Well, you know what was beautiful? I was going in to get a pastry for a friend of mine who was
visiting from London. I got him one. I thought
I'd bring him a pastry when I came out. But when I walked into the bakery, he was looking at the sky
with a curious look. He was thinking, like, isn't there a door number three?
Isn't there another? Gosh, there might just be a door number three. But mostly what I write down are pieces
of language or things, poems that I read, paragraphs, anything, so that you're just
constantly copying. In longhand, you can't type it. You're constantly copying
things that are beautiful. You're constantly guzzling beauty. You're guzzling
the beautiful language so that you're kind of steeped in it, you know, like a fruitcake
and good brandy.
Is the value of the commonplace book and using it this way in the writing down, or do you
have some approach to review or
using that later?
You know, I occasionally, I mean, the great thing about them is that if you get on an airplane or
you're going along, you sort of know what you're reading. But I've also been doing this. A poet
named Stanley Kunitz, who was a poet laureate in like 1978 or something,
told me to do this. So I've been doing this since 1978. Also, every time I give a lecture, I put the
quotes I use in the lecture on index cards. And so I have like, you know, I've been teaching for 40
years. I mean, I have 40 years of index cards with quotes on them. It's oddly satisfying. I
don't know what it is. But it's just like a sit-up you do. It's like a push-up you do.
It's something you don't really, I often don't look back on. I think it's in the writing down.
I think it's in the practice. And it's like an altar. You're making an altar for yourself
every day.
You know, I wanted to, might as well use this as a segue, altar. Could you speak to the
importance or utility of prayer in your life?
Yeah. I mean, I'm a prayer. I was an atheist my whole life, and I got sober in 1989.
And believe me, I drank my share.
I did my part.
I remember some guy I went to high school with telling me,
when my mother was still alive, I was home.
And he says, you don't even drink anymore.
You don't even smoke pot.
I was like, no, Jack O'Lantern, I don't do that stuff anymore.
It's like, why? I was like, well,
it just didn't agree with me. It made me do things that I didn't want to do. And he says,
I just think you're a quitter. I just think you're a quitter. I just think you gave up.
I mean, what is smoking pot going to do? You're never going to rob anybody's television or
anything. He said, well, that's true.
That's true enough, Jack Lantern.
But you have had this job pumping gas since the 11th grade.
Please tell me this guy's name was actually Jack Lantern.
His name was Jack.
We called him Jack Lantern because of a sad tooth thing he had going on
and because we were not ones to stand on ceremony and he said uh
i said you have had this job since the 11th grade and you're 50 years old
and you have an ambition deficit disorder
by my yardstick so no but he would say jack leonard he'd say don't call me that no more i'm
like what do you want me to call you?
Like, that's your name, dude.
That's been your name since you were 15.
That's your name.
What does prayer look like for you?
What is praying?
Well, I think it started off, I think poems are my first prayers. The ones that I read, like I said, I felt less lonely.
So I started praying not out of any virtue.
I didn't believe in God.
I had no religious training whatsoever.
When I was a little girl, you know, people would say, would talk about Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.
I thought they were kidding.
I thought they don't really believe this horseshit.
I mean, you know, I knew, I figured out pretty early on, you know, by the time I was like six or seven, people were serious that
they prayed when people weren't looking at them. I couldn't believe it. It was shocking to me.
And daddy would say, well, you know, folks ignorant, you know what you're going to do.
So I had not a religious bone in my body, but I did notice when I tried to stop drinking
that I couldn't, like that I tried to stop drinking for I couldn't like, like that. I tried to stop drinking for two or three
years and I tried by myself and I tried drinking only beer and I tried drinking only alone. I tried
drinking only with other people and I tried drinking only wine. I tried drinking with food.
I tried drinking, you know, weekends. I mean, I just, somehow I had crossed some line where I just couldn't, I couldn't stop drinking.
And I went to get help and I went to sat in church basements and I hated everybody I saw
who was sober. I just hated them. They just seemed like, you know, the guy selling incense
at the airport. I just didn't like them. They just didn't look fun. And I just,
they were so nice too. It was like getting to
Minnesota. They're, hi, you know, welcome. I'd be like, oh God, I hate these people.
And finally, the last time I drank, the last night I drank, I had gotten, I'd gotten together for
like, it was the longest amount of time sober I'd had since I was 15. And I'd gotten together 90
days sober by going and, you going and sitting in church basements
and talking to people who were sober. And I got a 90-day chip. And then I had to give this talk.
I had to give a poetry reading at Harvard. Sorry to interrupt. Just since I don't have
much familiarity, when you say 90-day chip, is that some literal token that you were given?
It looks like a poker chip. And so you you get one the first day you go in,
then you get one at 30 days and 60 days and 90 days. So this was for me an epic accomplishment.
I mean, there was no time that I ever ran the 100-yard dash in that was as important to me as
that 90-day chip. And I was happy that I was sober. I felt better. I was sleeping better.
My kid was better. Everything was better. And I had to give this was sober. I felt better. I was sleeping better. My kid was better.
Everything was better.
And I had to give this poetry reading at Harvard College.
And I was nervous.
I'd never given a reading without drinking.
The reading went OK.
I was teaching at a bunch of places, including one class there.
And I went out with some of my students.
And the next thing I know, it's 3 o'clock in the morning.
And my car's spinning out on store drive in Boston and I'm going towards this concrete and I somehow
didn't crash the car and I somehow got home. And so at that point, everybody had been saying,
you know, you got to get on your knees and pray. And there was this great heroin addict, recovering heroin addict, Janice, at this halfway house where I did volunteer work.
I drove people to meetings, basically, and would pick people up and drive them to meetings.
A lot of disabled people. And Janice said, just get on your knees. And I'm like, Janice,
you know, I don't believe, what kind of God wants me to grovel and go, oh, God, you're so great.
Ooh.
And she said, you don't do it for God, you asshole.
In that Boston accent.
You don't do it for God, you asshole.
I'm like, well, who am I doing it for?
She's like, you're doing it for yourself.
Just get on your knees.
Just say, help me stay sober in the morning.
Get on your knees. And I say, thank you for helping me stay sober. And so I'd be like, okay. So I get on your knees, just say, help me stay sober in the morning. Get on your knees. And I
say, thank you for helping me stay sober. And so I'd be like, okay. So I get on my knees,
help me stay sober. And at night I'd say, thank you for helping me stay sober. Well,
some weird things started to happen. I mean, sometimes I would literally shoot the finger
at the light fixture because I just thought, I hate this. You know what's terrifying about praying is the loneliness of it. I always
tell people, young women I sponsor, you show more faith praying when you have never prayed before
than any nun. To sit in that silence with all your fears and all your self-doubt is so scary and hard. If you have a big loud head,
like I do, and like I have a big inner life and my mind never has anything good to say, it
thinks it can kill me and go on living without me. Something started to happen. I would have
these moments of quiet. And the only way I can describe it is it was
south of my neck. It was like in the middle of my chest. If I was living my life with my head
like yammering at me like a chihuahua all day, do this, don't that, stupid bitch, put that down,
pick that up, go over there. I mean, it was just, eat this, don't eat that, call him, I hate him.
You know, like just these moments, like in the middle of my chest would be like this
broad expanse of quiet.
And I remember one particular day, our little shitty car broke down.
My kid was a toddler and he was, I had to pee. We were on the road. I didn't break down.
I had a flat and didn't have a spare, a working spare.
It was rush hour.
We were on Memorial Drive.
We're trying to get home.
And I just, in that moment, what I normally would have done, you know, I would have been
there, you know, like throwing the jack around and trying to get the car jacked up and in
a state of indignant fury that I didn't believe in God, but I believed that there was fate that had doomed me to misery and that the
guy with the Jaguar would always get my parking place right before I pulled in. And I believed,
I had a head that had memorized the bad news and spewed it out all day. And I remember that day,
it was the sun was setting.
I just got out on the side of the road.
I got Dev out of his car seat and the sun was going down and he was looking at me afraid that I was going to be like angry.
And I just sat there and he said, he was hungry
and I didn't have anything to eat in the car.
And I'm sitting there and I said, let's just look at the sunset a minute and then we'll go, we'll walk and we'll get some help.
And we were just sitting there looking at the sunset and this truck pulls up
with these Goomba guys from this 12-step meeting. And they have ginger ale. They have a jack. They have a way to tow my car.
They give Deb potato chips.
And it was just like, you know, all I have to do is just find some space in my body and just wait for a minute. notice things happening when I wasn't bent over the day like a dog over like a bone that was about
to be stolen. You know, like when I could just, I could just like sit there for a moment. And so I
began to get a space in my body and I began to get, I began to hear not the voice of God. I would
call it, I would have some leanings. Like I would be thinking, I should have just killed myself.
Like literally, this is what I'd be, I should have killed myself. My husband would marry some
nice girl who wore barrettes and my son would have this great mother and his life would be better if I weren't there. And I would hear this voice in my head that was like,
you need a sandwich. Why don't you get a sandwich? Like it would, it would, it would,
why don't you make yourself like the biggest sandwich you can make? And I'd be like,
oh, great idea. Like I just started to have these small good ideas that were not like anything I'd
ever heard when I was afraid before. Yeah, then I had all these crazy spiritual experiences.
And like one of the things I had this great sponsor, Joan the Bone, God, I loved her. She
was so great. She was the kind of girl who lived in Alaska and would go to the bar when it was like 50 below in a tutu.
She was just like a badass.
And she was a Harvard social theorist, too, I've got to tell you.
Joan the Bone.
Joan the Bone.
All that and a bowl of biscuits.
Sounds like a mobster.
What's the origin of the name?
Do you have any idea?
I just called her that. That was my nickname for her, Joan the Bone.
I see. I see. All right.
Joan the Bone. And Joan would tell me things like, I was such an ingrate, she'd say,
you have to make a gratitude list. And so she'd call me and say, what's on your gratitude list?
I would say, I have all my limbs. She'd say, no. Okay. Here's what you're going to do.
You're going to make a gratitude list every day this month for every letter of the alphabet.
And you're going to call me and read it to me.
I said, shut the fuck up.
I'm not going to do that.
She's like, yes, you are.
Or else, you know, like I won't talk to you anymore.
I'd be like, okay.
So I just started trying.
I just started trying.
Instead of sitting there with my arms crossed and my lower lip stuck out and my baseball cap pulled down over my eyes, I just started trying shit that people who were
happier than me suggested I should try. It was so simple. And I started to get a sense. And so one
of the things I said to her, she said, you've got to pray for what you want. What are you praying
for? I said, I pray to stand it. Yeah, not to kill myself, not to get- To stand it.
To stand it, just to get through the fucking day. That's what I'm praying for.
And she said, okay, well, you've got to pray for what you want. What do you want? I said,
I made $9,000 this year. I would like some money, please. She said, well, why don't you pray for
money? I'm like, you can't pray for that. She's like, well, why not? I said, okay. So I would literally get on my knees in the morning and say,
keep me sober. I would like some money. I'm not even making this up. And I would get on my knees
and say, thank you for keeping me sober. I would still like some money. Three weeks later, after I
started, this is a true story and you can look it up. I get a phone call from a guy who says he's from this foundation.
He's giving me $35,000 that I'd never applied for or asked for,
that somebody just put me up for.
And I so thought it was,
I thought it was my friend George playing a trick on me and says,
you know, fuck you, George.
And I hang the phone up and the guy calls back and he asked me on,
you know, the speakerphone, you can, fuck you, George. And I hang the phone up. And the guy calls back and he asked me on the speakerphone,
you can hear people laughing maniacally.
So I've never gotten money from prayer again.
But then Joan of Arc says, well, you must believe that there's some sort of God.
I was like, no, because they were meeting to give me that prize
before I had stopped drinking and started praying. And she said,
Jesus Christ. And I would also talk to her all the time. I'd say, how can there be a God? Because
look at the Holocaust. She's like, God didn't do the Holocaust. People did the Holocaust. Like,
what are you mad at God for? People did that. God didn't do it. That has nothing to do with God.
So that's how my prayer life started. It's a bizarre story.
I like bizarre. So Ignatian exercises, does that mean anything to you?
Yes. Yes. I became a Catholic. I became a Catholic and I do something, I practice a kind of spirituality called Ignatian spirituality, which when you become a Jesuit, you go away to the Jesuit place or the Jesuit
making place. So you go to Jesuit school and then they give you these 30-day exercises.
And the purpose of the exercises is to find God in all things. So like this election,
which is just turned around to look at my screen to see if we had
a new president. So this election, for instance. Just a side note, somebody just sent me a text
before we started recording and said the entire country has electile dysfunction,
which I thought was pretty clever. Why didn't I think of that? Oh, my God, that's so great.
That was a clever turn of phrase, yes.
Oh, my God.
No, it really is.
So finding God in all things.
Finding God in all things.
So that means, you know, like when the car breaks down,
instead of thinking, you know, your cruel fate, you know,
has come to hurt you.
So what you do actually, Tim, is in the morning I do a prayer and meditation thing for 20 minutes
where I do centering prayer for maybe, I don't know, five, six, seven minutes.
And then I read a scripture and I meditate on the scripture.
And then I have a bunch of people I pray for.
I have a list of people I pray for and things I pray for.
Then at night I do something called the examine of conscience, I have a bunch of people I pray for. I have a list of people I pray for and things I pray for.
Then at night, I do something called the examine of conscience where you, it's not like going over your day and making a list of good things that happened or whatever, and then repenting for the
bad things. It sounds like that, but it's not that. What it is, is you kind of press play
on the recorder of your day. So you think I I woke up, and so what did I do?
Where was I?
What mindset was I in?
And you close your eyes, and you try to review your day
literally like you're watching a movie.
And moments where you see moments of grace or luck
or even something, you know, a good sandwich,
something yummy to eat, or you're supposed to
savor those moments and occupy those moments. And it's a very body-oriented exercise. You're
supposed to smell. What do you smell? What do you hear? What do you taste? How do your clothes feel? You're supposed to really
recreate that moment in a sensory way and thank God for the grace or the gift of that.
And then you kind of press play again and you see moments where you turned away from God or your best self didn't act,
and you say, I want to do better next time.
Instead of snapping at the robocall voice,
snapping at Siri because she doesn't understand me,
I love me for myself alone, to just, you know, I wish I were, you know, tomorrow I'd like to be more
patient, help me to be more patient. So what it does is it made those moments of gratitude. And
I also keep kind of a list or journal of those things and a prayer journal, a daily, I don't
keep a journal journal, but I keep a daily prayer journal and and i just will kind of highlight some of those things like for me today right now steve
kornacki's haircut which i know he does himself i don't know the guy who delivers the big map
thing on msnbc i just like the guy i just like him every I see him, I feel like I'm spending the night at my girlfriend's
house and he's her nerdy brother who's like secretly hot. I had this flash of panic. So I was
like, oh, fuck, here's somebody important. I'm not saying he's unimportant, but I'm just saying,
oh God, here's another guy that I have to pretend I know because I'm on the podcast.
No, he's the guy who delivers the darn, you know, what the electoral map says on MSNBC.
Got it, got it.
So if you're a liberal, you're like a nut and you watch this way.
Other people watch other things.
So he's this really nerdy kind of math goop guy who wears like khakis and a really,
like a clip-on tie and has this really bad haircut.
And I just have a complete crush on him.
I just crush on him.
I don't even like young men.
I don't.
I really don't.
You have to have some hair coming out of yours for me to want to date you.
But this guy just does it for me.
I just like him.
I just like him.
So wait a second.
Tie that together for me.
Does that have anything to do with the prayer journal?
Yes.
Or were you just confessing that?
No, no.
I have a crush on this guy who's on TV every day, and it tickles me to see him.
It's kind of a little thrill.
It's a little thrill to see him.
It really is.
It's so stupid.
But it's also, it makes me feel like a child.
It makes me feel like I'm in junior high school.
And so there's something innocent and sweet about it.
Also the fact that he's so dorky, I like.
I just like that.
So you have a prayer journal.
I do.
You have the Commonplace Journal.
Right.
Do you have any other journals?
No, that's it.
Those are the two.
The prayer journal, I don't really, I only write, like actually write, and it's mostly kind of looks like a list.
Do you know what I'm saying?
It's mostly like a list of things.
Like the lady at my drugstore, my pharmacist, they were all out of the pneumonia vaccine.
I get pneumonia a lot.
And she went out of her way to call me and say, you know, I pneumonia vaccine. I get pneumonia a lot. And she went out of her way to call me and
say, you know, I got you the pneumonia. If you can come in right now that we had a cancellation,
you know, I can do that. Just kindnesses, moments of kindness, but also moments
of presence and awareness of God. A lot of people feel it in nature. I feel a little bit in Central
Park, which is all the nature I have.
You're out in-
I am currently in Austin, Texas,
which is home base for me.
Shut the front door.
Yeah, I've been here for three years.
I live in the Republic of Austin.
Love it.
Republic of Texas.
One of my favorite t-shirts,
not everyone's going to get this,
but is a shirt with the Texas flag,
which says most likely to secede on it, which I quite like. Yes. So I'm in Texas.
How did you wind up down there?
Would argue that I'm not in Texas.
Of course. Yeah, I know. Right. Listen, do you have a weapon? If you have a weapon, you belong.
I do.
Well, God, I'll get good for you. What do you have? Can I ask him? We talk weapons for a minute.
As far as weapons? Yeah, sure. I have a 7mm Win Mag hunting rifle. I have a Glock 34,
which is a 9mm handgun.
I know what it is. I know what a 9mm is.
Oh, you know what it is, of course.
I don't know what a 9mm gun is.
I'm not explaining it for you. I'm explaining it just like getting on your knees.
Not for God, it's for you.
I'm explaining to the listeners.
So nine millimeter Glock 34.
I have an M&P 45 and a few other-
Do you hunt?
Firearms that I don't use much.
I hunt, but infrequently.
And that started in 2012. I always had a very negative association
with hunting. I just given my exposure to it. It's kind of a great saying.
Yeah. I had a very negative association because I saw very irresponsible hunting on Long Island.
Yep. And then in the process of working on The 4-Hour Chef and learning to forage,
I felt it was incumbent upon me to hunt if I were to consume animal protein. So I had
my first deer hunt with an incredible hunter and conservationist named Steve Rinella.
And that really completely shifted my lens on how ethical and responsible
hunting could be. Now, in Texas, you have the whole spectrum from responsible to machine gunning
hogs from helicopters, which I do not partake in. Although people could argue it's an invasive
species, et cetera, et cetera. But yes, so I do hunt infrequently. Probably,
you know, let's just call it once every year or two.
You know, those javelina hogs are fun to shoot. I'm sorry to say it. I'm embarrassed to say it,
but I've shot a javelina hog. So I'm anti-gun, but pro-hunting. So does that make sense?
It does. I mean, I'm just imagining these kind of backwood Kiwis in New Zealand hunting hogs with knives walking into the woods barefoot, which is a real thing. I know one guy who did that. it's funny, one of my best friends is a young writer named Phil LaMarche,
who's one of those guys who stocks his freezer with bow and arrow kill venison.
He called me this week and said of very interest, he just killed his deer.
And he said, you know, the longer I hunt, you know, the only thing I hate about it is the killing.
I think there's a lot of shared sentiment to that by a lot of hunters.
I mean, the most reverent people I know about the natural world are practicing.
Many of them are practicing hunters.
True fact.
Well, I want to use this to tie a bunch of things together in the most awkward
fashion possible.
That's okay.
Because I've been trying to force fit a segue somewhere, so I might as well do it here.
Yeah, do it.
And that is to hear your description or explanation of how some of your wordsmithing came to be.
Part of what I enjoy so much about your writing
is that you have this, let me get this right, time critic Lev Grossman said in his review of Lit,
Carr seems to have been born with the inability to write a dishonest or boring sentence. That's
high praise. Now- Love him.
The least boring sentences for me.
And God, I wish I could remember it.
But you take this, what seems like this sensitivity to language and poetry to create sentences using cat shit sandwich metaphors and so on, which also seems to me, and maybe this is,
you tell me if this is warranted or not, but to be a very
kind of Texan thing also, it kind of makes me think of like a trial lawyer in God knows where
in Texas, right? Who gets up and just demolishes some slick trial attorney from Los Angeles in a
complete mismatch, right? I mean, just dismantle someone with these really clever turns of phrase.
Where does that come from? Or how did that develop in you? Because I do think it is one of your
superpowers. Well, I think growing up in Texas, it's a storytelling culture. Texas idiom is poetry
as far as I'm concerned. And I had two great practitioners. I'm a seventh generation Texan
on my mother's side and fifth generation of my daddy. So my daddy was a great barroom storyteller.
I mean, he was a labor union organizer for the Oil, Chemical and Atomic Workers Local 1242.
And he was just funny as a crutch and told these amazing kind of tall tales like out of Mark Twain.
But he also spoke in poetry like he would say, like a woman with an ample behind, he'd say, she has a butt like two bulldogs fighting in a bag.
And for him, that was a compliment.
There was nothing insulting about that.
He used to call me, I'm a little
skinny thing. He used to call me a gimlet ass. Pokey, you need some taler on that ass. You got
you a gimlet ass. I don't even know what that is, but I knew it wasn't good. A little flat butt.
Or he would say, it's raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock you can scan that by the way it's raining like a
cow pissing on flat rock it's it's wait what do you mean by scan real quick well i mean like like
shakespeare is iambic pentameter or my first love poem that was ever written to me i saw you on your
horse today your eyes like eggs, your hair like hay.
That's like, it's iambic pentameter.
It's da-da-da-da-da-da.
So that's, it doesn't matter what it is,
but you can hear it when I say it, right?
That it's raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock
and that you hit that flat rock.
It creates, for one thing, it creates a whole
landscape in which cows piss on flat rocks and people stand around and marvel and go, my goodness,
lookie at that. And then you attribute that to the rain. It's a metaphor. It operates way beyond
the bounds of propriety. It's not how you talk in church.
You're not supposed to talk like this.
So the minute you say this and somebody laughs at it, you have them.
They're in your boat.
They have transgressed by laughing at your joke.
Well, Daddy was just the master of a story, but he was also a poetic imagery. I mean, to me, that poetry, I grew up,
I was steeped in it. My mother, who was an enormous reader who read everything, Chinese
history and Russian novels and philosophy and just read everything, was just the master of, you know,
I remember when she was dying, somebody, she had all these old men
who were always trying to marry her, which, why?
But she's dying.
She's actively dying.
And one of these old boyfriends has come to see her at the hospital in Houston.
And the nurse spins over and says, Miss Carr, your husband's here to see you. And she says, well, he must look like
shit. He's been dead 20 years. And, you know, I mean, she just can't stop herself from saying
like the most horrible thing you've ever thought. And so I think between the two of them and just growing up in Texas, the idiom, the language I grew up with is epically beautiful.
And the need to not be boring when you speak.
You know, people will, I'm going to stomp a mud hole in your ass.
That is so much better than I'm going to whip your ass.
It's just like, yeah, right. My friend Dooney got in a fight once with
a guy in a bar and the guy said, and he told the greatest story about it. It was actually the guy
he decided to stab. He went out in his truck and got a knife and came back with like a Swiss army
knife. And he starts chasing this guy who was a state congressman, by the way, I won't tell you his
name, but he starts chasing him around this bar. Well, to brandish a weapon in a place where
alcohol is served is a mandatory, I think, 10 year sentence, some big, it's frowned upon.
And he's chasing this guy around. And what somebody says to Danny at one point,
that's a little bitty old knife you got there. He said, well, notice he don't want to get stabbed by it. And then he runs out and then we hear the siren.
So here comes the siren. Here comes the siren. Danny runs out, he gets in his truck and one of
those mall cops, security guys, runs out. And Danny says, he stands in front of my truck, in front of my
headlights. He's got a belt buckle that will pick up HBO. And he holds his hands up and goes,
halt, halt. And Dooney just puts it in first gear and hits the guy.
I mean, he doesn't hit him hard, but he knocks him down and then leaves and gets pulled over
and is convinced he's going to prison for brandishing this weapon, for trying to hit
this guy.
But anyway, it turns out he had to call the guy to apologize.
The guy's daddy knew Dooney's daddy.
And he said, all he wants you to do is apologize.
And Dooney's like, apologize?
You know, I'll blow the guy.
Like, are you kidding? I don't want to go to jail. Of course I'll apologize. And Duny's like, apologize? I'll blow the guy. Like, are you kidding? I don't want
to go to jail. Of course I'll apologize. But here's the punchline of the story. And this is
what makes Duny still my best friend since I was 15. So he calls the guy up and the guy answers
phone. And Duny goes, I am so sorry, man, about last night. I am so sorry. And the guy says,
you almost killed me. And Duny says, man, I'm so sorry. And the guy says, you almost killed me. And Dooney says,
man, I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was you. Don't you want to say that though? The next time
somebody happens, I didn't know it was you. The next time you do some horrible thing.
Next time I get in a really stupid argument with my girlfriend, that's what I'm going to use.
Don't you want to say, I didn't know it was you, honey?
I don't know. Only in the state of Texas do you have that story. It's just got all the elements
of a Texas story. How could I not love it down there? I mean, oh my God.
Let's talk about revision. Okay, revision. I'm a big revisor.
This doesn't have to be serious. I'm a big revisor.
You are a big revisor.
So you have said, anyone who's read a rough draft of anything I write is just shocked at how bad it is.
It's terrible.
And what does the process look like?
I mean, I know this is a very, hopefully it doesn't sound like a really naive question, because I know that there are many, many aspects to revision.
So I'll lead with just a bit. This is from writermag.com,
but Car says she takes a hard look at every sentence she writes. Can I make the sentence
less boring, more interesting, prettier, more colorful, more true? So that's a teaser.
What does your revision process look like? Because I've read that you threw out something
like 1,200 pages.
Throughout 1,200 pages of lit, yeah. Finished pages, too.
That's not draft.
And that was written over about, I want to say, five or six years.
And I remember when I threw it out, Tim, I was so upset.
I had been, well, first off, they were about to hang me.
I was so late.
I was like seven years late on a contract.
And so I finally, my agent called me and said,
you're going to have to, I said, you know what? I will sell my apartment and give
the damn money back if they don't shut up and leave me alone. It's just going to take me a
minute. So anyway, so I'd sent them, I don't know, I'd sent them like 130, 140 pages. And my editor at the time estimated that I'd
thrown out 1200 pages. And let me tell you when she said that they sucked as bad as I thought
they sucked. I mean, I knew they sucked when they sent them, which is why I didn't want to send them.
I wanted to keep working on them. So I just, I went to bed for like two days and I watched, you know, Dr. Phil reruns and a lot of cooking
shows. And I ordered a lot of curry. I think I had a whole pizza at one point and slopped around
in my bathrobe. And then I called Don DeLillo. I was one of the people I call, uh, it's like,
you know, the nuclear button, you know, who's like, just one of the great novelists,
and who's also happens to be a friend of mine. And I said, Don, I think I'm writing,
he's like, what are you crying about? I said, I think I'm writing a bad book.
And he said, well, who doesn't? And I thought about that. And I thought, God, he's right,
Tolstoy's written bad.. I mean, people I read,
every writer I know has written a bad book. So, okay. So maybe it's just supposed to be a bad
book, but it's the book that's standing in line to be written. And I think I became willing to fail, to just say what happened. So basically what it looks like is
just clawing through a line at a time or a sentence at a time. I think one example I give
in the art of memoir is that when I'm, my mother is driving me to college. And I think the sentence
I started with was something like, mother drove me to college
in her yellow station wagon. We stopped every night at the Holiday Inn and got drunk on
screwdrivers. I can't remember. Might've said puke and drunk on screwdrivers. I somehow was
able to remember being in that car. The thing about my mother's yellow station wagon
was that it didn't have an air conditioner. So at that time you could buy an air conditioner
that strapped under the dashboard. Well, it would build up condensation. And when she turned right,
and I was sitting in the shotgun, the water in the air conditioner would spill out onto my bare feet.
And it was icy, icy cold water. And I remembered that we had stopped and gotten a bushel of peaches
in Arkansas. And she was drinking vodka, driving, drinking vodka and orange juice and eating these,
watching her eat a peach.
You know, when you're 17 years old to watch your mother eat and show any desire for anything is just so horrifying.
You just want to die.
There's just nothing uglier than watching your mother eat a peach when you're 17.
You just think, my God, woman, shut your mouth.
Take a smaller bite.
Jesus, it's not going anywhere.
But the smell of the peaches and being in the...
And suddenly I remembered that I had a copy of A Hundred Years of Solitude that I had
got.
It was her book that I had started reading.
And she said, read it aloud to me.
And I remembered reading that book
and driving. And I remembered the, you know, you grow up around these kind of Texas dirt farms.
I mean, there's plenty of corporate farming in the state of Texas, but then you get to the Midwest
and it's just so organized. It's just, there aren't the rusted cars in the yard and the refrigerator on the porch.
You know, it's these rows and rows of corn and these big cinnamon colored silos. And I remember driving into that landscape up to that college and reading that book and thinking, I could be a writer. I somehow was able to remember those details and occupy that
body in space and time and remember how disgusted I was by my mother and how terrified I was that
I wouldn't do well at school, that I would fail. I've been such a screw up. I'd been arrested the
year before with a bunch of kids and there was a bunch of dope and
some of them went to jail and I didn't because the judge was a guy who had known my mother when she
was a reporter for the local newspaper. And I still remember sitting in here, she came to pick
me up wearing a leopard, she had leopard skin pajamas. It was July 4th and she had on a
beaver coat with a mink collar and those leopard skin pajamas in this hot night in Coons County,
Texas. And here sits this judge behind this, this liver spotted judge with these palsied hands and
every meal he's ever eaten on his tie when she came to pick me up. And he said, I remember your mother.
She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.
And she said, oh, you old fool.
I mean, it was just like, oh, my God, mother, get me out of here.
Sucking up is underrated.
So anyway, yeah, I think it's memory.
I do an exercise with my, I just did it the other day for a
colleague of mine, Dana Spietta, a wonderful young novelist I teach with. And she's teaching
an undergraduate class. And I said, you know, I want to do this right. There are 90 kids in the
class. I said, I want to do this writing exercise. She said, well, the writing, you know, it's been uneven. And I said, trust me, everyone will write well. And you have them focus on a room they grew up in and to try to
occupy the smell, to try to remember a room you were in where your mother's cooking,
your grandmother, wherever you had a good meal when you were little. and try to close your eyes and smell that because smell is the most
primordial memory and the most emotional memory. And it's stored way back in that
snake brain hypothalamus we have that is where all the trouble starts. You try to get in that memory
and interrogate your body about what you can smell, taste, touch. And then finally,
what you want, what are you yearning for and what's keeping you from getting it? Maybe it's
a bite of the brisket or some of the barbecue or daddy's oysters coming up out of the fryer or
what's going to keep you from getting it. It's my big footed sister who, as daddy said,
nothing ever got between her and a bag of groceries. You know, she's going to keep you from getting it. It's my big footed sister who, as daddy said, nothing ever got between her and a bag of groceries. She's going to get all the oysters and I won't get any.
And so it's really more about trying to occupy a former self. Because I think, as you know,
just as in trauma, the body remembers, the body also remembers beauty it also remembers pleasure and love and uh those other
things too so so the body keeps the score and if you go excavating for these memories sometimes
there are costs associated with that yeah i've you know i've read that while you were working on The Liars Club, that you'd suddenly fall asleep
in the middle of the afternoon as if you'd driven all night and you would sob, you'd really suffer.
What did you do to cope with that pain? And I should just say, you and I were chatting before
the recording about trauma a bit. and I've recently described some of my
childhood sexual abuse. And the podcast that I did related to it didn't seem to exact a horrifying
toll, but the process years before of trying to write about it and getting a very, very rough draft brutalized me and
just left me paralytic for, God, more than six months in some ways.
I'm so sorry.
Yeah. Thank you for saying that. And I'm horrified by the experience and also
fascinated by it in a way because I don't know why those two things should be so different.
And I'd just love to hear you expand a bit on the price that you've paid or your experience with dredging up a lot of these memories or recalling them, putting them down, and why writing
seems, at least in my experience, to be so different from some other forms of expressing
these things. Well, I mean, because you're alone. You're alone. I mean, that's for me where the
prayer and the God comes in. I do have a sense now that I didn't have back in the day. I mean,
by the time I started writing Liar's Club, how old was I? I don't know, 35.
I'd been in therapy for 16 years.
And I'd also had a prayer practice for, you know, a meditation and prayer practice for some years.
I hadn't converted.
I wasn't a Christian.
I was a Catholic.
But I was about to become
Catholic. And I was very active in recovery programs and I had a sponsor. And I also had,
based on all of those efforts, I had done a lot of the processing and recovery. I had
flown down to Texas when I was 23 years old and got my mother
drunk on margaritas and told her, you know, you tried to kill me with a butcher knife and it's
not because I was a bad kid and it ruined my life. And what the hell was wrong with you? What was
going on? You know, I had done a lot of that work before. and I tell people when they tell me they want to write a memoir
about some horrible stretch of childhood or some awful period of trauma, maybe they don't,
maybe they don't right now. So I think I had a sense of, you know, when I was drinking my idea
of medicating myself or anesthetizing myself, that was all I knew how
to do. That was what my parents told me to do. That was all they knew how to do, was try to drink
it away. My daddy was in the Battle of the Bulge. I mean, he went in at Normandy and he came out at
Bucamal. I mean, that's plenty of trauma. Plus, being married to my mother would have been simple. There's only one person with a weapon as opposed to the Nazis. So, yeah, I think I'm a big fan of a hot bath. I'm a big fan of nutritious food. I'm a big fan of cardio. Even now, I mean, I'm 65. I don't do five dance classes
a week, but I get up in the morning and I walk four miles. And then I do Pilates three or four
times a week. And I take a dance class a couple of times a week. And all those things keep me in
my body. And when I'm in a lot of pain, I take care of myself. When I was drinking,
I felt like I had this screaming baby that I was holding and I was screaming at it all the time to
shut up. So yeah, I think I still have, even writing anything now, I find very, I'm not
dealing with anything like that. I'm so much,
but I'm also, I'm so much happier now than I've ever been in my life. I mean, I'm 65 years old.
I've never been so happy in my life. I've never been less good looking, had less social power,
had, you know, any of the things that you would think would make me happy, joyous, and free.
And I'm just, I wake up every day really feeling lucky to be alive and feeling loved and feeling
like not every day. I mean, I wake up plenty of days and I'm, you know, mad as an old stomp piss ant, but most of my days are pretty lit up.
And it's a lifetime of practice.
So I just, you know, I tell a lot of my students, my young students, you know, want to write
about sexual assault or trauma of various kinds.
Well, maybe, you know, why don't you get some treatment for this first? Why don't you treat
your heart first, treat your body, treat yourself with a lot of care and see if this is what you
want to write about right now. Something you can write about maybe five years from now or something,
you know. What advice would you give yourself about therapy if you were talking to your 19 or 20 year old self and
how were you first convinced to go to therapy i remember you mentioning that long ago you know
i didn't have to be convinced i mean here's the other thing yeah no and there weren't a lot of
people saying gee i wish you'd stop drinking i mean i led a pretty isolated existence the way a lot of people who grew up the
way I grew up do. I mean, my idea of telling somebody how I felt, I remember right before
I stopped drinking, I remember I was teaching, well, sort of all over the academic ghetto around
Boston. But I remember specifically one day at Tufts, I was copying something for a class and I was, I was, I
had dropped my kid off, like vomiting out the side of the car before I dropped him off
at daycare.
I mean, and then I drove to Tufts and I was Xeroxing something and somebody said, how
are you doing, Mary?
And I was like, you know, I want to blow my fucking brains out.
And that was my idea of telling somebody how I felt, you know, making a glib sort of awkward,
socially awkward statement to somebody I hardly knew. And I've been in therapy then for a while,
but I was also drinking every day, everything I could get my meds on. So I don't know.
What is good therapy to you? Because therapy is a term that's extremely broad.
It's kind of like saying medicine, right?
Yeah, exactly.
There are so many different specialties.
What has proven to be good therapy for you?
You know, I think it totally depends on the person.
I mean, the best therapist I ever had, I think, I mean, for me, the difference in therapy and recovery, I think in therapy, I'm the baby and they're the mommy. And that model sort of, especially when I first
started, I just felt like I needed a lot of nurturing. And I had great therapists. My first
therapist, when I look back on things he said and did was insane he would have been fired he told me to go down after he'd been seeing me nine months
and confront my homicidal suicidal mother about all this horrible stuff she'd done to me
and i did it and he said i won't see you until you do it wow i mean
nobody's ever done it for a pound yeah i know i mean i look back on it i was like
he was crazy nobody's ever i had a great therapist when my son was a baby who was a psychologist phd
psychologist and who really helped me try to learn how to be a mother when I hadn't had one. And all the feelings that come up around
what you didn't get when you were a child, when you have a child, the protection and stuff.
It's funny, my son watches me with his daughter now and just says, I don't know,
sort of gives me nothing but a stroke. And I said, let me just tell you, I was not this good with you.
Like I was crazy about you and I loved you,
but I didn't have what I have now that I have with her.
That's just, it's not even, I don't even break a sweat going in there.
I can do this stuff.
It's funny.
I was in prospect.
I babysit one or two days a week.
I was in prospect park this week and I had taken her across the park in a stroller, and a thunderstorm broke out.
I mean, pouring rain.
I've never shared DNA with somebody this good-natured as this baby.
This baby coos, smiles, laughs, never cries.
I mean, sleeps, eats, is just the best natured kid.
I used to babysit in high school and college.
So I've taken care of a lot of babies and she's just the easiest kid.
I get across the thing, it's pouring rain.
And I've got, and she starts screaming, crying, like she's being beaten.
And I take her out of the stroller and I hold her
and she calms down. I go to put her back in the stroller and she just starts screaming, crying
again. Well, it's two miles across a muddy field in the pouring rain. And I've got a stroller and
a bunch of crap. And I've got this, you know, 27 pound unit, screaming unit. And I just had no problem doing it. And when I was 40 years old,
35 years old, it would have been like being beaten with a hose. And I just thought, you know what,
daddy was in the battle of the bulge. This is not that hard. You know, I just had the physical energy, even at my age, that I didn't know I had to do it,
and I got back to the house, and I went to fold up the stroller, there was four inches of freezing
water in the bottom of the stroller that I've been putting her in, and she was soaked through
to her skin, yeah, there was, she was perfectly reasonable to be, you know, now I understand,
I could have just emptied it out and put her in the stroller and wrapped her up in a blanket.
But I didn't know what it was.
But I just thought, well, I'll get her home and it'll be fine.
You know, I didn't feel like, oh, my God, oh, my God, I'm a terrible mother and I'm going to wind up trying to stab her with a butcher knife, which is how I felt when my kid was that age.
You know, I didn't know that I wasn't going to be my mother.
I wasn't. I didn't know that I wasn't going to be my mother. I didn't
know that. So scary. That is scary. Yeah, super scary. And it sounds like, please correct me if
I'm wrong, but that you've learned in some form or fashion, or maybe many forms and fashions,
to wear the world like a loose garment. I'd love to know if you agree or disagree.
Based on my reading... I wouldn't say that.
Well, okay. So, your first confession...
Absolutely not. No.
Priest said to you, wear the world like a loose garment. What does that mean to you?
Well, I mean, I think it's not... The problem isn't whatever your mind is telling you the
problem is. The problem is the fear.
And for me, the solution to fear is curiosity and presence.
And I can't be terrified and curious at the same time.
And so when I was walking the baby across the field, just all I was was physically uncomfortable. I mean, I was, you know, I was walking the baby across the field.
Just all I was was physically uncomfortable.
I mean, I was, you know, I was thinking, gee, can I shove this thing and hold her moose,
you know, and get everything and get all this stuff?
How am I going to do, you know?
And so I went crossways across the mud field.
So I'm shoving the stroller and carrying her.
I didn't know physically if I could do it.
I was sort of dubious. I was thought, maybe I can't do this, but all I had to do was do it. I thought,
well, if I get tired, I'll sit down. It'll rain on me a minute. Then I'll get up and go again.
Like that's what we'll do. But I don't know. I wouldn't say it's not my nature to be,
here's the way I put it. I tell people it's like I have a trick knee. It's like most of the time I walk fine, I run fine,
I can squat more than my body weight
and do advanced Pilates for an hour and 10 minutes
and I'm tough as a boot.
But there are days that when,
there are days that I don't feel that way or there are moments where I get, my knee goes out and I fall on the ground.
And all I have to do is honor those moments.
All I have to do is, I have a heating pad.
I have a weighted blanket.
You know, my kids have a pit bull I'll bring to stay with me.
While an idiot is my little comfort animal. I call people,
I still have a sponsor, I still have a therapist I don't talk to all the time, but I didn't have
to be convinced to go into therapy. I knew I needed it, but when I first started it,
as you know, it was just so damn painful. And I just, for those of your listeners out there,
if you're having a hard time, I just
want to say, it's like you lance a boil and the infection's draining off. And if you can just
get by that, it's going to tell you that it's endless, but it's not endless. There's a bottom
to it. So did you ever smoke? You never did. I was never a smoker. No.
Yeah. You're just such a jock.
You're such a specimen.
You're such a specimen, Tim.
Well, we're all specimens.
It depends on how we look on the autopsy table.
But I was born premature, so I have respiratory issues on my left lung. And that was part of it.
So I had a lot of breathing issues growing up to begin with.
And secondly, sports saved me.
So sports kept me out of a lot of trouble.
Yeah.
You know, I was good at sports, and then I quit when I was like, I quit.
And I'm much more of a jock now than I was then.
Why did you ask about smoking?
I was going to ask you about smoking because when you quit smoking, there's a phenomenon that
happens. It's also when you quit drinking, but somehow it's more intense when you smoke.
You'll have a craving for a cigarette and the craving is as intense as it was the first day
you quit. It's as overpowering. But if you just keep note of
how long the craving lasts and how many of them there are, they're as intense,
but they're not as long and as frequent. So it's the same thing about suffering
when you first start therapy or you first lance that boil and you're unearthing some of the painful things you grew up with.
It's as intense the first day and you just feel like, oh, my God, I'm in the burn ward and I just got snatched out of the fire and every ounce of me hurts and I want to run screaming down the street like my hair's on fire.
And it just won't last as long as it did the first time.
Excellent advice.
For your listeners, if you're just looking at hard things that you grew up with
or you're trying to quit smoking, trying to quit drinking,
trying to recover from trauma, I promise you,
I will send you money if this is not true, that it will get easier. It's just, it's not linear. And there will be those days when it's as painful as the
first day and you'll think, but I'm no better than I was, but you are. It doesn't feel that way.
Yeah. Excellent advice. And just a few more questions. I'm having so much fun,
I could go forever, but I... You've got a lot to do, dude.
Do I? Do I though? I don't know. I mean, it's... Where in Austin do you live?
Well, I spend most of my time downtown for recording and then live in the burbs outside
of that. I love it.
I love it in Austin.
Beautiful.
And expect to be here for quite some time.
I wanted to move here right after college.
I didn't get the job.
And there was really one.
Those morons.
They screwed up.
Yeah.
Well, you know, possibly.
I also think that that could have been in everyone's best interest.
I think I make a quite terrible employee in most circumstances.
Me too.
But at the time, and I didn't expect this to lead here, but at the time that I was not
given the green light to get an offer from Trilogy Software way back in the day.
It seemed like a death blow, right? This seemed like the end of the world because I'd put a lot
of eggs in that basket. I didn't want to do anything that was recruiting on campus really
otherwise. And I listened to and watched your Syracuse University commencement speech.
Oh, that's so nice of you.
And then I read a transcript, and I think this is from the speech, unless it was sort of
mistranscribed, but here's the paragraph. Almost every time I was super afraid it was of the wrong
thing. And stuff that first looked like the worst, most humiliating thing that could ever happen
almost always led me to something extraordinary and very fine.
So my question is, could you give us an example of that that comes to mind?
It could be something humiliating.
It could be a favorite failure.
But anything that, as it turns out.
When I first did a kind of moral inventory and recovery that they encourage you to do, I had a lot of resentments against God.
When you say they, this is in a 12-step program?
Yeah.
And Joan the Bone, you know.
Joan the Bone, right.
Like one of the things I really resented God for, my son, who was just this little beautiful blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and a tank of a boy,
a natural kind of athlete, when he was little, he was sick all the time. I mean, he would get a cold
and he would get these sinus infections. His fever would go to like 105. We'd rush him to
Children's Hospital in Boston. It was terrifying. We're always rushing
to emergency rooms because his fever was so bleeding high and just so terrifying. And so
I never slept. I never slept. And I was depressed. I was probably postpartumly depressed. And I was
drinking. By then I had started, I decided drinking would help me
take care of a sick child. Great idea, Mir. It's like the bad mom in the afterschool special.
And so what? And I remember, so when it came time to do Ignatian spiritual exercise,
you're trying to find God in all things. Where is God in that?
Where is God in a sick baby?
I'll tell you a secret.
When I actually looked at my life and the decisions I was making,
I would have kept drinking.
If I'd had one of those Playboy babies, you know,
that like sleeps 12 hours a night and, you know, never is sick and
just, you know, coos and cuddles and like, and, and I had been able to, I would have kept drinking.
If I'd had my granddaughter, who's like the easiest, like 12 hour night sleeper,
eats everything you give her, laughs at everything you do. I would have kept drinking. I could not
physically drink the way a real alcoholic needs to drink and take care of a kid who was sick all
the time. Couldn't do it and work and make a living. I couldn't do all those things. It's too
hard. And so I don't think God sent pathogens into my infant son's body. I don't know how any of this works.
But when I ask where God is in this, that physical, my own physical discomfort forced me to get sober.
So my sister died this summer, very suddenly, of pancreatic cancer in less than a week.
I'm sorry.
Yeah, I'm sorry too.
You know, we were not in touch. We had a terrible childhood and we had not been
really in touch for seven years. And that was my choice. And I remember saying to my therapist,
isn't it going to be terrible when she dies? She said, yeah, it's going to be terrible anyway. And although it's horrible that she's dead, there's nothing. I feel my love for
her. I don't have to defend myself against my love for her the way I did when we were estranged. I can cherish and remember all the times we were there for each other,
all the ages we were in each other's lives.
And, yeah, I would give anything for her to be alive,
but I still think our not being in touch was the best thing for both of us.
You know? I don't regret that. And there's this amazing gift to me of being in touch now with her son
and her husband and her stepchildren. And I would give anything if she were alive.
But there are gifts in this suffering that are real spiritual gifts. I practice when things happen that I find very
disappointing. My son had a film coming out, his first feature film coming out at Tribeca Film
Festival. And it's a global pandemic. And so there is no Tribeca Film Festival. And he's raised
somehow all this money and put years worth of work in and moved heaven and earth.
And you know what?
The film's being released.
He's got a great distribution deal.
He just won Best Director at Fright Fest.
And it's unfolding just the way it needs to unfold.
It's getting curious about where the light is, just being curious about where the light is. Getting curious about where the light is, you know, just being curious about where the light is.
Getting curious about where the light is, the all-powerful reframe.
And it is really incredible what can happen, as you said, when you really get curious in the face of fear.
I have to say this on air, Tim, because I have to say it.
I have so many young people who come to me about sexual assault,
so many young men who have come to me, my students, young writers, young poets,
and your being open about this on this podcast has just been such a gift to all these young men.
Thank you.
So good for you. So good for you.
So good for you.
So a horrible thing that happened to you
that's being used to help a lot of,
give a lot of people hope
and it's going to prompt a lot of healing.
I hope so.
And I've seen a lot come out of the woodwork
and it's been simultaneously,
and I know you've experienced
this certainly, it's been simultaneously appalling, rewarding, and brutal in a way.
I mean, it's all of those things. I mean, there's a lot of pain and beauty in it. And I'll just
mention that of my closest male friends, and there really aren't that many,
I don't collect friends like little porcelain teacups or whatever people collect. I have a fairly small-ish circle, and I would say 30% of my closest male friends reached out to me after
that podcast to describe their own experiences with sexual abuse
that I know nothing about. And these are people I've known for a very long time. So I hope there's
healing. Of course there is. We're living, look, we're living, look, we're not curled up in the
back wards of mental institutions and we both could be. Yeah, very true. Very true. Well, Mary, we're going to talk again, and I want to ask one more question, which sometimes is a dead end, and I'll own that if it is.
Okay, then. metaphorically speaking to reach billions of people however many you want a word a phrase
a question a quote a poem anything what might you put on that oh my god that's so hardcore
oh my god that is really god that's a little it's aggressive it's aggressive it's hardcore
it really is it's a little javelina hogs as a
pack of javelina hogs running out of the bushes at me um what could i uh what would i put
and it doesn't have to be the one and only this could just be the first billboard
the first billboard you know put down gun, you need a sandwich. You need a sandwich and a hot bath.
No, I know what I would put. I would put 90% of what's wrong with you could be cured with a hot
bath. That's what I'd put. I love it. I love that. Well, Mary, this has been so much fun.
Been a hoot. I've really, really enjoyed this.
People can find you at your website, marykarr.com.
That's marykarr.com.
Twitter at marykarrlit, L-I-T.
Is there anything else you'd like to say, suggest, ask, request of the listeners?
Let's all heal.
Let's all heal as a country, no matter how different we think we are.
We're all suffering souls, and we all want to heal this riven country of ours.
So that's what I'm wishing for all of us.
I'm wishing everybody a lot of love and light today.
And a big, nice cigar.
Hear, hear.
Hear, hear.
Get curious. Look for the light uh thank you mary all right
you take care you go do you i will and to everybody listening we'll link to everything
that we've mentioned in the show notes at team.blog forward slash podcast and until next time
thanks for listening hey guys this is tim again Just a few more things before you take off.
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