[p. 3 of 4]

[Alarcón continues]... passionate about the problems of the suburban American white upper class. And yet, what Cheever does so well is make these people so intensely human, so flawed and wonderful, that I can't turn away. So no, I didn't set out to write a collection about the post-9/11 world or anything, I just wanted to write something as human and as humane as a Cheever story, as quietly violent as a Juan Rulfo story, as fiercely intelligent as a Borges story. That's the benchmark, no question. There are others, of course. My interests, my fascination and identification with Peru, the family stories I grew up with, the things I've seen, the people I've met, my background in anthropology—all of this has had an impact on the kind of fiction I've ended up writing. Why don't I write about Birmingham? The fact is there are more places in the world like Lima than there are like the pleasant, leafy suburb where I was raised. There are more people staking out a life on the peripheries of the global system than there are people like us—meaning anybody likely to be reading this interview—who bought in early, were raised in it, and who essentially have the world at our disposal. In my work, in my travels, I've been drawn to those places, to those people whose capacity for survival and hope overwhelms mine.

I lived in two neighborhoods when I was in Lima in 2001-2002: San Isidro, a very well-off part of the city where my parents have an apartment, and San Juan de Lurigancho, which was settled by land takeovers, and where, as I mentioned before, water, electricity, security, everything is an issue. Initially I was living at my parents' place and commuting to San Juan for my job, but the disconnect between the two areas was so great, so stark, that in the end I went to live in San Juan. The hour-and-a-half bus ride to work every day from San Isidro was so gut wrenching, I just couldn't handle it emotionally. I preferred dealing with the lack of amenities in San Juan to being confronted daily by the grotesque nature of my First World privilege. Then of course, once settled in San Juan, I had the privilege of being incorporated into people's lives, being trusted by people who had no reason to trust me: it's humbling. People came to me with their stories, so much so that I never had to look for them.

LRS: You moved directly from Lima to Iowa City in 2002 for grad school at the Writers' Workshop. That seems like a pretty big change. How did things go for you at Iowa?

Alarcón: Iowa was great. I didn't and couldn't get a lot of writing done in Lima—life there was just too distracting. By the end I was deep into teaching in San Juan, and couldn't flake on those obligations. Plus I have a lot of family and made many great friends. It was frustrating because I thought I would have all this time to write and in fact, I had none. Before Lima, I had been living in New York, in an apartment I shared with between four and eight people (the exact number was constantly in flux), working in New York public schools, and writing every night unless I was too depressed and exhausted by my job.

Then I got to Iowa and all I had was time. I didn't have to teach and I thought I would miss it—at that point I'd been teaching in one context or another for four years—but I didn't. I saw that everyone around me was writing almost every day, and I knew I had to get to work. That's what it was for me: a kick in the ass. Being a writer is about sitting down and writing. And I think that's what it was for most people I met there. These were talented people who took their shit seriously. I think most of us had never met people out there in the world who really thought of themselves as writers. Sure I'd taken workshops before, but nothing like this.

Certainly one of the most boring "issues" in contemporary American literature is this: MFA program: good or evil? I can't tell you how tedious this discussion is to me. Can anyone seriously argue that spending two years reading a lot of books and writing a lot and talking about writing with smart people is a bad thing for one's development as an artist? It certainly was useful for me. Of course it's true that you either are or are not an artist, and that you can't really teach someone how to write, but you can insulate them from (or rather postpone the worst effects of) certain pressures for two years, plunk them down in a small town with excellent bookstores, decent coffee shops, and a big-ass library, surround them with intelligent people, have every touring writer roll through town, and I would argue the combined effect will undoubtedly be a positive one.

LRS: So now you're living in sunny Oakland, working on your novel. You have a two-year gig as the distinguished writer-in-residence at Mills College, plus a book deal on top of that, and you recently won the prestigious Whiting Writers' Award. You're twenty-eight years old and relatively good looking, although not tall. You must really be a happy person. Exactly how happy are you?

Alarcón: I'm plenty tall for a writer, Vinnie. And yes, I am generally quite happy, though about once every six weeks I have a dark, self-pitying spell that usually lasts about 72 hours, but it passes and then I'm okay again. The following life issues have not been solved by the publication of my book:

1. I can't hold my liquor.
2. I still don't really like talking to people I don't know (unless someone introduces us).
3. Writing remains difficult.
4. My cat is somewhat violent.
5. There are no direct Oakland-Lima flights.

[continues...]