Keith Dixon at the Middle Distance

One of the tips for writers on Keith Dixon’s web site is, “Be generous to your readers.â€? He might be talking about artistic generosity—assuming readers are smart yet giving them enough information to keep up, not boring them with unnecessary detail, et cetera. I take it at face value, as Keith has been very generous to me ever since stumbling upon a blog post in which I mentioned I was reading his first novel, Ghostfires. He generously blurbed Story of a Girl, not knowing me from Eve, and with the publication of his second novel, The Art of Losing, he generously agreed to this interview.

The Art of Losing is the story of Mike Jacobs, a documentary filmmaker who has enjoyed critical success but can’t seem to actually make a living. When his producer, Sebby Laslo, comes up with a dangerous scheme that will allegedly make them both a fat wad of easy money, Mike ignores his own better judgment and basically plunges head first into an empty pool, hoping water will somehow magically appear. Disaster, as you can imagine, ensues. This is a compelling read that manages to explore greed, guilt, fathers and sons, artistic vision, personal failure, unrequited love, and the very nature of God in 243 tight, fast pages.

The word “noir” comes up a lot in the (very good) reviews for The Art of Losing. How do you feel about that descriptor? Were you consciously influenced by or paying homage to noir books and films?

I certainly don’t mind the noir label, since I’ve always loved roman noir and its practitioners (every apprentice writer ought to be required to read every word James M. Cain ever wrote). I firmly believe that a writer owes his readers a strong plot, and the noir form naturally supplies that. In my own mind the book is better classified as a Pardoner’s Tale, the sort of novel in which, as Martin Amis so beautifully describes it, ‘Death roams the land—disguised as money.’ But I wasn’t consciously paying homage to anyone or anything but my own obsessions. The book’s moral concerns naturally led its protagonist to a clash of his highest and lowest instincts. 

The prose in this novel is much more spare and immediate than that in your first novel, Ghostfires. Did that flow naturally out of the story, or were you going for something specifically different, stylistically?

I was going for something different. With Ghostfires I wanted to convey an extremely rich, tragic tapestry, which required quite a bit of fireworks in the prose department; with The Art of Losing, however, I didn’t want a word out of place. The first person form is, by its own design, far more limiting than the third-person form. In trade, however, the narrative has an immediacy that third-person can’t match. And I think when first-person writing becomes too florid, you begin to lose that raw, honest immediacy.

Near the beginning of the story the narrator, Mike, compares his experience making independent films to his producer, Sebby’s, gambling problem: “I’m making documentaries, the kind of films that ask the viewer to do some thinking. The distributor’s got to make all his cash outlay and his print-and-advertising money back before he makes a dime. A twenty-thousand-dollar budget against 75 percent profit, with national distribution my only hope for a gasp of air. Five or six people take two hours out of their lives to go see something that took a year of my life to make. And then nothing. Then I do it all over again, and again, and every day I sink a little deeper in debt. So really, I’ve got to ask you, which of us is the degenerate gambler—Sebby or me?” A few pages later, the narrator gives us this: “[usually...] you have to compromise. That was why artists became cynical as they grew older. Cynicism was your only shelter from self-disgust.”

Among the tips for writers on your blog you include, “Understand the difference between commercial and artistic success and accept that one doesn’t guarantee the other.” So the obvious question: Are Mike’s reflections on being an indie filmmaker actually yours on being a literary novelist?

You’ve seen right through me. I am very much talking about literary novels (and myself) here. I could talk all day on this subject, so I’ll try and be brief, and not too cynical—consider, for example, how I felt when I first read about Kaavya Viswanathan, who was paid a half-million dollar advance for a novel she had not yet written and that later turned out to be plagiarized. The equivalent would be to switch on a Yankees game and discover that Steinbrenner had put nine Little Leaguers on the field, each with a ten-million dollar payday, and benched Derek Jeter and the rest of the starters and reduced their pay to minimum wage. Somehow that’s how things work in the publishing industry, and it’s why disgust ends up killing off so many writers. I’m writing at the top of my game, right now—the critics are being unbelievably kind—but get this: Opal Mehta is outselling me. Look it up yourself on amazon.com. It makes me want to eat my own teeth.

Sorry if I seem bitter on that one.

Your narrator, Mike, grew up Catholic and has this fearful view of the God of the Bible, but what he finds most fearful is God’s love, which he describes as “ruthless as time and a hundred times as lethal.” It seems to me that Mike is offered numerous lifelines of grace that, if he’d take hold of even one, could save him. Yet he continues to make choices that only lead him deeper into the maze. What do you think it is that causes him to do that? Is the prospect of love really so terrible for him that accepting it is worse than the hell he brings on himself by rejecting it? Without giving anything away, were you ever tempted to give him a happy ending?

First, I should say that I never worry about giving a happy or a sad ending: the only ending I want to give is the right ending. Quite a few people were startled by the ending to my first novel, Ghostfires, which essentially allows the bad guy to hide in exile. It’s not the happy ending many would have liked. But any other ending would have been cheating, and I’m too invested in my work to give anyone, myself included, a free pass.

Mike is not at all afraid of love—it’s greed that’s at work here. He goes all the way down the wrong avenue because he’s exhausted his better instincts and now he wants only one thing: a quick buck. The degree to which his life unravels is intended to be a cautionary tale against such moves.

I think Mike’s feelings toward God can be characterized by a passage I wrote that takes place while he’s being beaten by a bookmaker he’s crossed. Mike has just told the bookmaker that he’d hoped he would be given some slack, and perhaps some extra time to settle the debt he owes:

 ‘You had hoped?’ Clive asked. ‘Did you think God would reach right down and fix the books Himself?’
 ‘No,’ I said.
 ‘I’ll bet you did. I don’t know a single loser like you doesn’t pray for His help. Help me this one time Jesus. Give me this last win Christ. You sure you don’t look to Him?’
 ‘Yes,’ I said.
 ‘Why not?’
 I wasn’t exactly sure. It had something to do with the fact that He had created these three men, and then had given them the means to suffocate and beat me. There seemed to be no end to His mistakes.

This, I think, ties into my feelings about the publishing industry: so much is asked of you, and yet not much is being given in return. Mike’s conscience compels him to live a Zenlike existence, yet he’s routinely punished for this with poverty, disregard, and so on.

Ghostfires is, basically, a tragedy. The Art of Losing is a tragedy. One might draw the conclusion that you have a very dark, tragic vision of the world. Do you fundamentally believe that humans will, given the opportunity, generally screw things up for themselves? How do the stories you write connect with your worldview, if at all?

I’m actually a pretty cheerful guy—just ask my wife. But it’s true that I don’t have much faith in human nature. Look at today’s paper, any day’s paper: the destructive nature of the human animal is there on display—I’m talking avarice, will to power, greed, violence, murder, mayhem. And that’s just on page one. I think with my novels I’m simply reflecting what’s already going on out there. Art can take two paths—it can be escapist, or it can be intensely grounding. I go for the second path; I want my books to help people look unflinchingly at their own lives.

You’ve talked twice now about your novel doing something. Do you think art is required to do anything other than tell a story or offer an experience? This issue is always a hot topic among YA authors, because it seems we are asked to carry an extra weight of expectation that our books will edify young minds, teach them something, mold them, help them learn morals, etc. I’m curious about your thoughts on the moral obligation of artists, if you think there is such a thing.

[When I] talk about what I want my books to ‘do,’ I can assure you such concerns are purely secondary—perhaps even tertiary. When I conceive, write and publish a novel, just getting the thing to work as a story requires every ounce of creative energy I have to give. I’m no tub-thumping polemicist—when I say I want the book to ‘do’ something, what I’m really saying is, ‘I hope I can write this well enough that the reader believes it outright, gets lost in it, and is able to see the themes shining through.’

The novel is by its nature a moral thing: the form demands that characters engage life and are transformed by it, for better or for worse. I’m sure the demand on YA authors to edify young minds is exhausting. I do, however, think that expectation is placed on all writers trying to work at the highest levels of their craft.

You’ve got some good tips for writers on your web site. One of them is, “Get a job that has nothing to do with writing,” but you work as an editor at the New York Times. A lot of novelists do start out or end up with jobs as technical writers, or teaching writing, or doing editorial work. What are the challenges when your day job and your passion essentially share the same tools?

Yes, I am an editor, but I’m a technology editor—this means that I work all day with software development, production of the newspaper, workflows for big news projects. That sort of thing. So in fact I do very little work with words—certainly no writing or editing. I could never hold a job that involves writing and editing—it would ask too much of me, I think, and would ultimately kill off the compulsion to write creatively. Anyone who manages to do both has my deepest admiration.

One of your other tips is “Never say in 10 pages what can be said with a single interesting sentence.” The Art of Losing is pretty short – not even 250 pages. Was there any point in the process at which you or your editor or anyone at St. Martin’s wanted it to be longer?

I think this fits in with the idea of happy vs sad vs right ending. A writer should never concern herself with if the novel is of a short or extended length—only if it’s the right length. That is to say, if you can cut out a chapter without changing the soul of the book, it’s too long. If you haven’t answered every question the book raises, it’s too short. That’s the only yardstick a writer should use. My editor must feel the same way, because we never once discussed the length.

I’d love to hear a little about the research you did for this book. To read it, it sounds like maybe there were a lot of cocktails and long afternoons Off-Track Betting. How deeply did you delve into the world of horse racing and bookies to get the details right? And I’ll ask the same question in relation to the movie industry and filmmaking process.

I did lots of research for the track stuff—some of it at the OTB (I work in Times Square and they have one on West 48th Street just south of Rockefeller Center), some of it at the track itself. I also extensively interviewed one friend who once worked as a professional Las Vegas and Atlantic City gambler, and another who professionally gambles on the horses at Belmont and Aqueduct. What a fascinating world that is. Talk about risk!

The film stuff was far more convenient—my younger brother Tim, who lives here in New York, works in the film industry and knows just about everything there is to know about film shooting, production and post-production. He was a terrific resource for all of that.

Speaking of movies, the book is very cinematic and the dialogue seems ready for immediate translation to the screen. Has there been any movie interest yet?

Well, we’ve signed on the wonderful Amy Schiffman at the Gersh Agency, which has offices in Beverly Hills and New York—she’s hard at work trying to place the novel with a number of filmmakers. I for one would love to see the book up on the silver screen, so I’m hoping she’ll have some luck.

Me, too. I’d love to see this on film, and I’d love to see your book get the attention it deserves. Thanks so much for your time, Keith!

Keith’s web site: http://www.readkeithdixon.com
Buy The Art of Losing
From your local independent seller
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Buy Ghostfires
From your local independent seller
From Amazon

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