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William Michaelian
Interviewed by John Berbrich
As the following interview illustrates, I’m not one for beating around the bush. The truth is, I come from a long line of blowhards who readily proclaim their views, even before they are fully formulated. No one in our family is satisfied by simply saying something. We all speak in pronouncements. Everything is either black or white. The result, of course, is that we frequently contradict ourselves. In fact, I was informed recently by one of my son’s friends that listening to me talk was like riding on a verbal roller coaster. “You say one thing,” he said, “and then you say the exact opposite.” I thanked him for the compliment. “There’s a reason for that,” I said. “It’s because I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
John Berbrich: Bill, your stories are a little bit different from the usual. When you sit down to write, do you have a pretty good idea where the story will end up, or do you just start off and go?
William Michaelian: I’m glad you asked that question. When I start a story, I have no idea where I’m headed. But I don’t want to know. I want to find out. That’s what writing is to me. Finding out. Being surprised. Being surprised, and waiting for that feeling of luck to come over me as I work. Really, I’m a great believer in luck — which, in this case, is another word for receptivity. You know? The stories are out there, floating around. If I’m open to them, I’ll catch one. But I won’t control it, or own it. It will own me. That’s why writing is so much fun. And that’s where variety comes from. God — when I think of some of the stories I’ve written — it’s crazy. Some are traditional and very straightforward, and others are, well, you know. You’ve seen them. I’ve subjected you to enough of them. In fact, I really should apologize. I should apologize first for abusing your editorial kindness, and then for going on and on, which is something I always do. May I have a glass of water?
JB: Sure. Nancy’ll get it. So — do you write poetry from the same part of your brain that you write prose? Pass the hummus, please.
WM: Oops. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep it all to myself. There you go. It’s excellent, by the way. It has just the right amount of lemon juice. Anyhow — to answer your question, I think my stories and poems come from the same place. They’re different forms, but a byproduct of the same twisted mind. I do tend to write poems in clumps, though. Sometimes I even write them two or three at a time, simultaneously, on the same piece of paper. It’s sort of like my brain is a sponge, and I have to wring it out occasionally. Granted, it’s messy. And smelly. Not as smelly as Nancy’s hummus, but almost. Ah, water. Bless you. We were just talking about your wonderful hummus. You have a way with garlic, my dear.
Nancy Berbrich: You’re so sweet. Here, try some of these.
WM: You know, if you keep feeding me like this, you’re going to have to wheel me out of here. Umm. That is good. Whatever it is.
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