Q&A | Portland author Jon Raymond

Portland writer Jon Raymond may be best known for two recent movies adapted from his short stories: "Old Joy" (2006) and the upcoming "Wendy and Lucy," both directed by Kelly Reichardt.

But Raymond's new book of short fiction, "Livability" (Bloomsbury, 260 pp., $15) shows him to be more varied in his range and talents than the two movies would suggest

I had the chance to talk with him about book earlier this week:

Q: You take on and portray the contemporary urban Northwest in ways I haven't encountered before. Were you consciously trying to correct a literary image of our region that still seems to consist largely of mountains and fir trees?

A: Yes, absolutely. I was trying to represent a fairly middle-class world, different from, say, a Kesey-ish world of tragic lumberjacks, or a Carver-ish world of beery bingo parlors and broken cars and such. And definitely a world without salmon or fly-fishing. I might say it's less a correction than an update, though. I wanted to depict lives more like those that my friends and family are living.

Q: That prompts me to ask about the collection's title, "Livability," which seems a bit ironic. Portland, like Seattle, comes near the top of the bill whenever cities are indexed for their "livability." Yet quite a few characters in your book mess up badly. Were you trying to caution readers that living somewhere "livable" doesn't mean your life will go the way you hoped?

A: Yes! I've always found the word "livability" hilarious. I mean, is that really what we're shooting for here? Mere livability? I always thought the point of life was something richer than that. Something full of great tragedy or comedy, reversal of fortune, ecstasy, that kind of thing. But no, contemporary urban theorists seem satisfied with the merely livable, which always sounds to me like the merely survivable, the not so bad. Livability has always struck me as a consolation prize. I wanted to at least trouble that word a little. I wanted to inject it with if not some romance, at least some darker currents.

Q: Two stories, "The Wind" and "New Shoes," offer some of the best portraits of children I've read in a long while. Are you drawing from childhood memories? Are you a parent? Does your writing bringing you into contact with children, for instance as a teacher?

A: "The Wind" draws on childhood memories, for sure. As with that character, I was forced to fight a kid in my neighborhood, and as with that story, the older kids who organized the fight only had one pair of boxing gloves, which meant we only got one glove apiece. I was younger, so I got the left one. And I lost. As far as parenthood goes, I have a brand new kid, a 9-month-old daughter named Eliza. She's not old enough to talk yet, though, so she's not much help when it comes to research.

Q: You look a little too young in your jacket photo to be writing about middle-age burnout as persuasively as you do. I'm thinking of "The Suckling Pig," a very tough story about bankrupt life purpose. "The Coast," about a widower trying to balance grief with his still vital impulse toward life, has a similar authenticity from a different angle. So I can't help asking: How old are you? Are these experiences you're anticipating? Or do they somehow reflect what you've been through?

A: I'm 37. So, you know, old enough to have experienced my share of disappointment, shame, horniness, belated satisfaction, etc. At least enough to sympathize with others' like experiences, I hope.

Q: Each story in the book covers very different ground — friendship, parenthood, love affairs, divorce, widowhood, lives gone off the rails. Each seems to have a moral quandary it addresses, too. What are the germs of these stories? Do you conceive of the quandary first? Or does the process start more intuitively, with the narrative's focus emerging gradually?

A: I was hoping the stories would add up to a little more than the sum of their parts, so I was drawn to characters and situations that covered similar geographical ground, but divergent moral, socio-economic, and cultural territory. The germs of the stories came from all over the place, though. I stole a goodly amount from friends and family and tried to keep an eye on political moods. In some sense, I do think of these characters as all part of the same community, neighbors in the way that, say, the characters in Sherwood Anderson's "Winesburg, Ohio" are neighbors. In that way, they are all facing similar questions about what exactly their duties are to each other, what they owe each other as people sharing time in the same place.

Q: You've been a magazine editor at Plazm, a film-set assistant to Todd Haynes (for "Far From Heaven"), a film-script co-writer and the author of two books. Which is the career you most aspired to from the start? Which is your day job? Was your entry into film-making a happy accident? Does the father's anxiety about his film project in "New Shoes" reflect your own ambitions, or was it a product of something you witnessed?

A: Writing fiction is the "job" I try to keep at the center of things. The movie stuff has been a wonderful accident, though not entirely bizarre, either, as I have done some work in film before, and even directed a ridiculous, cable-access feature back in my 20s. As far as paying the bills, though, I've had the pleasure of falling into an odd series of freelance jobs over the years, mainly in advertising, or para-advertising capacities. I also teach from time to time and review books and art. So far it's worked out all right, but long-term survival remains kind of mysterious to me. The father's artistic/financial anxiety in "New Shoes" is definitely something I relate to, and something I think a lot of other artists probably would, too.

Q: I liked your comment in your interview with The Oregonian on the short story being "the more proper template for a movie." It's pained me, for instance, to see Henry James' great novels shrunk to a two-hour span when James has so many fine stories and novellas that would suit film adaptation far more comfortably. Are there are any writers whose novels have been adapted, perhaps inadequately, for film, whose short stories or novellas remain untapped but might by far more movie-suited candidates, in your opinion?

A: For some reason the only thing coming to mind is the idea of like Spike Jonze adapting some George Saunders stories. I'd like to see that. Otherwise, though, I can't really think of anything off hand. Alice Munro? I caught some of that Sarah Polley movie on a plane ["Away From Her"], and it didn't look that amazing to me. Charlie D'Ambrosio's stories? I bet someone could do it. Some perverse part of me wants to say Ben Marcus or Donald Barthelme. But in general, its pretty rare that I read something and wish I could see it as a film.

Q: I've noticed some name changes in your world. For instance, you've changed from "Jonathan" to "Jon" between your debut novel, "The Half-Life," and your new book, "Livability." And the name of the protagonist in "Train Choir" [adapted for film as "Wendy and Lucy"] got changed from Verna to Wendy. Any special reason?

A: My mom calls me Jonathan, so I felt like I should go with that for the first novel. But then at some point I realized that everyone calls me Jon, and it seemed almost misleading. As for Verna and Wendy, I forget exactly why the names changed. Kelly liked Wendy and I liked Verna, and since we each have our respective domains we both got to have our way.

Q: Last question: "Words and Things" includes the first allusion I've come across in contemporary fiction to Canadian filmmaker Guy Maddin's "Careful!" — one of my favorites. What other movies might be likely to make cameo appearances in your work?

A: That is some seriously observant reading on your part. The only other movie reference that I can think of is in "New Shoes," the main characters' screenplay, described as "'Animal House' meets 'Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.'" That movie doesn't exist, but some friends and I did actually write that screenplay a couple years ago.

Michael Upchurch: mupchurch@seattletimes.com