Interview with Colin McKay Miller

When I arrived at the Cat O’Nine Tails this month, I was surprised to find there was no Grady Stiles on hand to serve me (maybe “hand” is a poor choice of word), but instead a young and broody looking bartender sat reading a book by, Carl Jung. Having read a little of Jung a few years back, I remembered his thoughts on the dangers of optimism, saying, ‘Every form of addiction is bad, whether the narcotic be alcohol, narcotic, or idealism’. Feeling it somewhat apt, considering the setting, I thought I’d engage with the bartender on a level he might appreciate, opening with the line, “What drink would help dull any idealistic considerations I may be harbouring?” For the few seconds that followed, his expression could be compared only to that of a baby having its first bowel movement. Not to draw too much attention to the silence unfurling, I followed on quickly with an order of Guinness and a half smile. While the bartender poured, I reflected on Jung’s axiom and philosophy in general, which in turn led me to reconsider a few questions crafted for my interview with writer, COLIN MCKAY MILLER. Taking my pint and notepad to my usual booth, I made a few amendments and awaited Colin’s arrival. I wasn’t waiting long.

Before we began the interview, I asked Colin what he wanted to drink, but it seems Colin leads a Bible Study in a halfway house where if the guys aren’t there for drug and alcohol related crimes, those elements are often a factor in what they did get busted for. As a result of that, Colin doesn’t drink alcohol, so requested a Cherry Coke virgin instead. He did, however, wonder if the bartender might throw on some karaoke, because, as he put it, he can, “hit all the notes to Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ and, on a good night Aretha Franklin’s ‘Respect.’ ” I obliged in his request, and received another peculiar look from the barkeep. I think it was about time to start the interview.

CW: You’re currently a member of the on-line writer’s workshop, Write Club; what makes WC different from say, The Cult’s [Chuck Palahniuk’s Official Website] or any other on-line workshop?

CMM: Most of my workshop experience came in my undergrad where I dealt with the various archetypes: the black sweater soul patch guy, the lady who wrote about talking cat people in space, the ‘We speak English so let’s turn it into a degree’ students, and every other bad cliché that contributes to a literary migraine, so I was ready for the distance of the online experience. However, I was never much of a Cultie… Cultite… Cultosaur… whatever, so I can’t comment on that or the other online workshop I was a part of which flatlined. I guess that’s my ringing endorsement for Write Club then: It hasn’t failed yet.

CW: It consists of a motley crew – Richard Thomas, Caleb J Ross, Gordon Highland, Christopher Dwyer, Alex Martin, Eddy Rathke, Nik Korpon, Jason Heim, Paul Eckert. All are doing well, having stories appear in print and e-zines; for that reason, has the workshop served its function, or do writers who have a few publishing credits under their belt still need the support and guidance from their peers?

CMM: I think there’s a huge benefit to anyone coming along side of you and saying, “Hey, I know you probably don’t even realize you’re doing this, but you’ve been hitting the same tick for the last 60,000 words.” Having all four people in your group nailing the same issues forces you to grow as a writer or give up. The rejection factor never goes away, no matter how big you get. In fact, it only increases. When there’s a colinmckaymillersucks.com, I’ll know I’ve made it.

The value of Write Club is that it’s a group of writers really going after it, even if ‘it’ is different from person to person. There’s a guy named Nicholas Merlin Karpuk who doesn’t really write shorts—says it’s like trying to squeeze ten pounds of stuff into a five-pound bag—but he’s getting his longer work out there via serialization. Richard Thomas recently won a ChiZine competition and Chris Dwyer is writer in residence over at Dogmatika, so there’s a healthy level of competition for who gets what, yet still enough solidarity to cheer you on when the latest wave of rejection is too much.

CW: Of the short stories you have written, which one are you most proud of?

CMM: I have this magical realism short called The Man Who Put The Ocean In A Book that’s getting rejected left and right, but that’s how it goes. When you’re proud of something, the world says no.

Last time I had lunch with Stephen Graham Jones we were chatting about how the stories we think are the best get rejected the most and the ones we think are just so-so get picked up right away with a lot of praise. I was telling him that the guy who wrote The Nutcracker spent his entire life trying to write something better. Problem is, he defined ‘better’ as ‘more popular’ and it burned him till his death. I’ve learned to accept that the Venn diagram of what I think is my best and what others think is my best doesn’t have much overlap.

CW: What music inspires you?

CMM: When I was nineteen I was this raging metalhead—wore huge rent-a-tent concert shirts, black jeans, Doc Martens, the whole bit—and I went and saw Magnolia in the movie theatre. That movie broke something in me that was never quite fixed and truthfully, I hope never is. Even my musical tastes shifted. I spent way too much on that soundtrack because I needed to hear the frailty in Aimee Mann’s voice again. There’s something very natural to her lyrics. The same applies to Elliott Smith. That natural feel is something I admire in just about every medium. Amy Hempel, A.L. Kennedy, Raymond Carver and Nick Hornby do it well in prose. Neil LaBute does it well as a playwright, too.

These days, my favourite band is, Idlewild. There’s something about their sound that goes deeper than the lyrics or chord progression—maybe it tugs on my homeland routes, I don’t know—but that feeling is something I’m constantly trying to put into words. Most often though, I can’t write to anything with lyrics. Classics and movie scores end up being the default. Otherwise, what goes in my ears comes out through my fingers.

CW: If I was a publisher, how would you pitch your novel to me?

CMM: The latest one? How To Die In A Year?

CW: Yeah.

CMM: Aimee Solstice is a receptionist for her family business—Solstice Mortuary—even though most of her family has moved on, via death or choice. Tired of dreaming of the dead and living depressed, Aimee decides she’ll kill herself if her life doesn’t change within a year.

I never thought I’d write a Christian novel, but How to Die in a Year seemed like the right fit for that style.

CW: It’s a Christian novel?

CMM: What’s the matter? Oh, I said that ugly term: Christian fiction. I know, it scared some of the fellas in Write Club, too, but it’s got enough of an edge to keep them intrigued.

My brother-in-law once looked at the books and movies on my shelf and said, “If I didn’t know you, I’d think you were a way different person.” I’ve always leaned dark in my fiction, but tried to live as clean as possible. Sin is awful and destructive when it touches your life, but intriguing in fiction. Since I’m usually writing about forgiveness, grace and the damaging effects of sin anyway, I just figured it was time to be more overt.

CW: I guess this leads me nicely to asking, Free Will or Determinism?

CMM: You’re asking a halfway house minister that? Prepare thyself for a detailed history on the Arminianism-Calvinism debate… Hey wait, where are you going? Okay, I’ll keep it simple. Philip Yancey once talked about how it’s possible for both human free will and God’s plan to exist at the same time: Have you ever played chess with someone who’s much better than you? It’s not so much that the expert is reaching across the table and moving the pieces for you; it’s just that the way they’re moving makes you move a certain way. Sure, you could make some crazy move—I mean, people do it every day in life—but most of the time, you’re choosing to react to what’s coming at you.

CW: What do you have that you don’t need, and what do you want that you haven’t got?

CMM: Lots that I don’t need, not that much I want. I suppose that’s a cliché, but it’s where I’m at. I buy very little these days; save for books, halfway house supplies, food and whatever my family needs. I try to live lean because I don’t know where I’m going to be in six months. I could be on the other side of the earth; I could live out the rest of my days in Colorado. We’ll see.

That’s something following Jesus has taught me: As much as I hate change, I don’t get to say what’s off-limits. Three-and-a-half years ago, working in any form of prison ministry would have seemed like a bad idea, especially since I’m 5’5”, 110 pounds—come on, I weigh less than Gandhi when he was starving himself to death—but these days, it’s the joy of my heart. I’m content where I’m at, but ready to go if the order comes down. Speaking of which, there’s my song…

**

As Lauper’s opus crackled through the overhead speakers, and Colin closed his eyes and threw his head back toward the ceiling in anticipation of that first line, I couldn’t help admire his attitude to life, and wondered if he was a good a chess player. I would have asked the latter, but he was already climbing onto the table, the Cherry Coke bottle poised like a microphone in his hand. It was going to be an interesting night.


Colin McKay Miller is a writer and volunteer halfway house minister from Edinburgh, Scotland. He has nonfiction upcoming in Vagabond Press’ MIND anthology and fiction upcoming in Sideshow Fables and Amphetamine Press’ black edition. He currently blogs at http://sardonic-artery.livejournal.com/ and is working on http://www.colinmckaymiller.com/. (He hopes colinmckaymillersucks.com is already in progress.) He lives in Colorado with his wife and daughter.