10 Questions for Elias Leake Quinn

- By Amal Zaman and Danielle Brown

“The tarthky was a beast from a different era, from back when the dunes were just a thin sheet spread over a second sea, the clumps of dune grasses bobbing like Lilliputian schooners. An adventurer with the right equipment could pierce the sand, dive through the floating grasses, and swim beneath their tangled roots. The shaft light drove down from the surface toward ancient monsters with wide, blind eyes.” —from “Driftwood,” which appears in the Summer 2016 issue (Volume 57, Issue 2).

Tells us about one of the first pieces you wrote

That’s kind of a tough question. Writing has always been a part of the thought process for me. I guess you’d have to think of my life in a bunch of phases—the middle-school wannabe-writer phase, the self-indulgent college sophomore, the post-college existential crisis. Each phase had its own portfolio, and so its own “first” work. But most of those snakeskins have been shed, and most of those pages have been lost (or burned). In this current phase—what I cautiously hope is a more mature, empathetic writer-self—“Driftwood” was actually a pretty early piece.

What writer or work influenced the way you write now?

This one is easy: Crockett Johnson. Best known for Harold and the Purple Crayon, Johnson is one of the most subtle and profound writers of all time. Period. If you haven’t read it, go find Magic Beach. It’s Johnson at his best, and it’s breathtakingly simple. In a span of twenty-some pages, he repackages the parable of the fisher king as a meditation on stories themselves—their power, their purpose, their inevitability. Crockett Johnson’s tailored but unadorned writing style is a constant reminder that you can do a lot with a little. And his books stand out—not just as children’s books, but also as literature—in the way that they provide experiences. When you come to the last page, you know you’ve been through something meaningful, but no lessons were doled out, no moral victors were named. It’s a kind of satisfying ambiguity that is very rare, in my experience. And he accomplishes this all without taking himself too seriously.

Its funny: In an era where people are clamoring for Kelly Link or George Saunders—undisputed masters of the short story—to sit down and write a novel, I’m rooting for them to go the other direction: write a children’s book. As best I can tell, that’s the hardest thing to write brilliantly. If I could do it, I would. Maybe I’ll try again someday.

What did you want to be when you grew up?

A fire truck.

What inspired you to write “Driftwood”?

For ten years now I have been spending some time each summer on the Oregon coast near where Bay Ocean used to be (yup, it was a real attempt at a city), and I’ve been taking notes on the place that whole time. When I started making the trips to Oregon, I had just met my now-wife. Our families were beginning the process of getting to know each other, and a lot of that happened on the Oregon coast. Maybe this happens every time a partner meets the family, but the process seemed sort of haunted: as much as we enjoyed the company of each other’s families, there were always echoes of the family members we wished could have been a part of that process, but who had passed on before she and I met. Somehow, that feeling and that place became intertwined for me. With that (extra)sensory feeling, I probably put pen to page to write this story as many as five years ago now, but I wrestled a long time with the “haunted” aspect, trying to get it to a place that read the way it felt when I was walking on the beach.

Some of the inspiration to keep going was the story of Bay Ocean itself, some of it was my personal experience of Oregon as haunted or full of remembered absences. But the thing that actually got me started was the tarthky shark—the moment I glimpsed it, I wished I’d had a whole childhood with that beast in that landscape. Since I couldn’t have one, I gave that childhood to someone else, even if it was a fleeting gift.

Are you particular about your workspace or can you write anywhere?

If ever I was, I’m not anymore. Most of the writing time I have these days is commuting on the Metro to and from downtown D.C. My kids are young—tons of fun, but “uninterrupted” isn’t really in their wheelhouse at the moment. As often as not, my writing sessions involve typing madly with my thumbs on my phone while on the train, secretly hoping for a maintenance delay so I don’t have to get off at my stop just yet.

What other professions have you worked in?

I was a sea-kayaking instructor and tour guide in Monterey Bay; I was a bike mechanic in Boulder, Colorado. Then I got less choosy about how I spent my time and ended up in law school.

What is a city or place that influences your writing?

The Oregon coast is the obvious answer, but my more recent home of Washington, D.C., has snuck up on me in its influence. It’s a very diverse city—diverse along many different dimensions—and there’s a pretty cool vibe that folks here are trying to do something real. It’s a place of earnest engagement—more so than you might think, given popular cynicism about politics and government. Whatever their methods, most of the people in D.C. care very broadly and very deeply, and it’s a neat thing to be a part of. It has definitely infected my writing—in tone, in setting, and in story selection.

Do you have any rituals or traditions that you do in order to write?

Not so much a ritual as an unfortunate reality. For me, writing is most productive when I’m really busy with other things. Writing is always there, but for some reason, the muse really only comes with times of frantic activity in other parts of my life. This is . . . inconvenient. It means the stories weasel their way into my mind when I feel like I have the least time and attention to give them. But I’ve tried a couple of times in my life—between jobs, before going to grad school—to do nothing but write. My life was boring, and so were my stories (lots of pages written about what it’s like to sit around in a coffee shop trying to write stuff). So I guess to keep writing, I have to keep busy.

What is your favorite food and/or drink while you're writing?

A cappuccino and a chocolate croissant. Ideally the croissant is just crumbs (I ate most of it on the walk from the counter to my table) and the cappuccino is just barely warmer than the room (which means I mostly forgot about it during a rare stint of continuous productivity).

Who typically gets the first read of your work?

My wife. But that’s not quite as easy as it may sound. Not that she’s a tough critic (actually, she’s always encouraging), but my wife has this keen insight and possesses a rare and humbling wisdom. Even after ten years of marriage, I am still, deep down, a little scared I’ll embarrass myself with something I’ve written. This works as a fairly good (if self-imposed) editing process: even when I’m tired of a piece and want to pass it off to someone else to think about, if I can’t quite muster the courage to give it to my wife, I know I need to sit down and work through it again. 

Elias Leake Quinn lives with his family in Washington, D.C., where he keeps a day job as an environmental lawyer. He has a fondness for cephalopods.