Dustin LaValley: How did you come about writing fiction? Was there any main decision, which led you into your first serious story?

John Lawson: It was a two-step process for me, really. I had spent the 1990’s as part of the D.C. underground music scene. When my band came to an end in August of ‘99 I was faced with the choice of giving up entirely on creative pursuits—something I’d followed since preschool—or I could move forward on my own. The only feild of the arts that I could financially support at that time was one requiring no more than a pen and a sheet of paper. For whatever reason I was convinced that screenwriting was where it was at, so I set about learning the format, how to write a professional synopsis, where to dig up leads on what studios were looking for, how to successfully query agents and producers, etc. Over the next year and a half I finished three feature-length screenplays and some shorts, drawing interest from over a dozen indie producers, but it all went nowhere. I even co-produced an award-winning short film, but there’s simply no support network. All the low-level screenwriters are either tearing each other down or ripping each other off. “Proffesional” critiques by script doctoring companies were especially derisive: any attempts at “art” are the equivalent of suicide unless, of course, you’re somebody who has a good sale or two under your belt. Or...if you have some manner of literary validation, perhaps in the form of an agent of a book sale.

So I started combing that side of writing. Thing is, agents want you to have a track record of sales before approaching them most of the time. That being the case I started doing freelance articles, cheapie works for hire, while working on converting one of my screenplays into a novel. During this time I continued to court producers, with the same results. Then, in the autumn of 2000, I saw an ad for an insanity-themed contest being held by someplace called Fiction International. I figured that I should know insanity better than anyone, and if I couldn’t win such a contest I’d better just hang up my pen and reseign myself to a life of manual labor. Fortunately I managed to be one of the two winners, drawing a fat check, my first fiction publication (in a prestigious journal, no less!), and a nomination for the Pushcart Prize.

After that there was no going back. I ditched articles for haiku and kept at it with the fiction, compiling some rejections and getting a few acceptances. It was only after becoming an editor a year later that my writing career started to take off, and by then I wasn’t too interested in agents anymore.
 
D.L.: Did you know from the start what genre your main focus would be directed towards? Is there a single genre you feel your work can be labeled under or is it a free spirit, allowed to roam?
 
J.L.: I can honestly say that it was always intened to have a dark focus, but in a more literary/experimental way. My imagination is always drawn to things that make us exceedingly uncomfortable, but not necessarily in a “horror” way. Although, to be honest, I eventually had to focus on the horror market because that’s the only place that editors expect readers to be interested in such things. I’ve called my writng “horrible” leading one interviewer to coin the phrase “The Horrible.” That’s what it is, because that’s what life has shown me. On a side note, my work is also loaded with humor and other elements, usually blending two or three genres at a time.

D.L.: Most writers have at least one elder in the field they look to for inspiration when starting out. Is there any writer you found specifically helpful to your work in the beginning?

J.L.: When starting on the screenplays I was most impressed by the work of Andrew Kevin Walker (8mm, Seven), and tried to model myself after Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club, Survivor). Some interesting work came out of that. Segueing into fiction/poetry, Harold Jaffe and Michael Arnzen have almost had mentoring roles for me. Giving me encouragement, alerting me to new markets that ended up being big breaks, directing great writers to my zine, and providing a model of innovation within their fields. Overall, my work is some bastard combination of Dostoevsky, Bret Easton Ellis, Palahniuk, Faulkner, Clive Barker, and Lovecraft.
 
D.L.: Your unique style is honestly fresh compared to many writers. Was this voice always there or did it develop over time?
J.L.: It’s all just an extension of what I did with my visual art when I was a boy, then my music as a young adult. Only I’ve spent many years dwelling on the psychological dymanics of human interaction, of my own thought process. As a result the creative process is far more refined—no longer Godzilla lashing out with broad strokes, but more like the alien gestating in your chest. I was lucky enough to go through some uniquely unlucky experiences as a child, so I’ve possessed this crazy perspective all along, I just didn’t have the intellect/experience to make proper use of it. And, standard scenerios just kill it for me. I have to be interested in the work in order to finish it. It’s much more attractive to write about a secret society of bulldogs that decapitates people just to ride around on their bodies, than, say, a wealthy man whose child has been kidnapped. Now, I could approach that subject, but only in an “unconventional” format, and probably there would have to be some “socially unacceptable” stuff thrown in too. I guess that’s not only what attracts many to my writing, but is also my biggest liability; I give no consideration to “what people will think” when reading my work. I don’t believe you can, and remain honest. Intense fear takes hold and prevents me from doing anything then.
 
D.L.: It has been said that a well-written short story can be more challenging for an author then longer works. Do you find this opinion close to reality or maybe it truthful that such challenges vary from person to person?

J.L.: It all depends on the motivations of the writer. When I was young I had a passion for writing, but at the time everything in my life was geared toward avoiding responsibility...crap jobs, living in a mess, avoiding the more positive people, and certainly never completing anything too involved, even most short stories. Later, when I was dedicated (desperate?) enough, it all came naturally. I’d already changed my mode of operations and man, the stories just flowed out. Let me tell you, it’s nearly impossible to stem the tide now, for me anyway. Almost anything could be a novel. Weeding out all the potentialities and details takes incredible effort. Being able to recognize the core of the story, or a story that is simple enough in scope to fit into 2,000, maybe 3,000 words, for me it’s far more difficult than just locking onto a theme with characters and just running with it. I end up doing a lot of novellas. For the record, screenplays are 25,000 on the average, and novels usually weigh in at 80,000 words. To defeat this inclination to write ten times more than most short story markets want, I really needed to learn about mastering my word usuage. The haiku/senryu really did it for me. If you can express a thought or convery a scene in just seventeen syllables you’ll be able to handle a complete story in a thousand words. Took me three hundred haiku to get it down, but I’m there now (more or less).
 
D.L.: What are the main troubles you personally have to surmount while writing for a longer outcome?

J.L.: Staying focused is the bane of any self-employed individual working at home. There’s always something to be doing: family, house repairs, errands, entertainment distractions, friends. More insideous are the work-related distractions, such as correspondence or dropping one project in favor of something that seems more promising. My first novel stalled at 147 pages when I started having short story success. When I went back and looked at it my writing had greatly improved by then, and I’d have to rewrite the whole thing. Meanwhile, I stopped work my other novel (200 pages into it) when I started getting personally invited to a lot of markets by the editors. This second novel is still more than satisfactory and I’m working on clearing my plate so I can get back to it by the end of the year.
 
D.L.: Is there a basic structure you try to follow while writing a story of reasonable size?
 
J.L.: Not really. I usually only write short stories for specific markets, and for me it’s hard enough to restrict myself to what editors are looking for. So it ends up being pretty free-form...a lot of non-linear stories come out of the process. In terms of novels/screenplays, you’re supposed to have this three-act thing going on, but I never could get into that. The only contant is the antagonism, avarice, and apathy permeating my stories.
 
D.L.: What do you believe makes for a publishable tale of chapbook length?

J.L.: Think of it as a mini-novel. The reader has to be taken on the same kind of journey, just not as long of one. Show them something new, create a believable world readers can immerse themselves in (believeable as in it feels real, not as in “hey, that wouldn’t happen in real life!”—real life is for people who can’t handle fiction). A chapbook containing just one story, well, you’re entering novella range there...anywhere from 8,000 to 15,000 words. Maybe more, maybe less depending on text layout and illustrations. Regardless, always think of it as an actual book: this is how consumers and editors in the marketplace will see you as a writer, how your reputation will be established/maintained. Take chapbooks as seriously as hardcovers, even more seriously perhaps, because in a lot of instances it will be your first solo print appearance, and you usually don’t have a huge publishing house to check for errors, make sure it gets into the right hands, etc. You’re on your own for that usually. On a side note, I believe the chapbook is an essential yet often overlooked format in independent publishing. You can make a beautiful product, make a little money, and get actual reviews which are essential for establishing yourself. At least, that’s how it worked with my chapbook The Scars Are Complimentary.
 
D.L.: Are there any specifics that should be carefully considered before handing in a body of work to a publisher?

J.L.: Remember that it’s a business correspondence, and nothing more. Your fate—and your work’s fate—will never depend on the opinion of any one publisher. Never let criticisms defeat you, and don’t let praise expand your ego too greatly. Be courtous, patient, and send only thoroughly proofread work—after you’ve checked their submission procedures. And when the inevitable rejections come your way, always consider their suggestions in case they might have some valid points, especially if they’ve shown even a smidgeon of interest. Largely, though, the specifics lay in the publisher’s stated submission guidelines—they’re there for a reason.
 
D.L.: Any works in progress you’d like to share? Anything you would like to include which I have not covered?

J.L.: Well, I’ve recently broken a long string of rejections with acceptances from Terror Tales, sidereality, and the Chimeraworld anthology. There are a few forthcoming anthologies I’d editing too, including Dangerous Orgasms, The Wicked Will Laugh, and The Wrong Side of the Afterlife. Things are looking up. It’s taken several years of work, but if you keep at it there are certainly rewards. Personally, I have a rejection/acceptance ratio of 6:1. From what I understand that’s pretty good, and I didn’t have to wait the customary three years before my first sale. I think the Internet, not any talent on my part, is to thank for this. If you have computer access and determination, you can really dig up all the right opportunities.