In Brandi Spering’s forthcoming poetic narrative, This I Can Tell You, the narrator roots through the wreckage of memory, holding each one up to the light—for examination, for truth—to understand her past and how one moment defined the rest. She urges us to look closer—beyond the expanse of time and the dust rubbed away by sleeve—at the swept-up secrets that bind families.
Brandi Spering was kind enough to talk to us about her new book, writing process, and ghosts.
1. First, how is Brandi Spering doing in the age of Zoom?
Whenever I ask my grandma—over facetime now, which amazes me—how she is doing, she always says Why complain? I have aches and pains like everyone else. I feel the same, except my aches and pains seem very insignificant compared to those of others’ right now. I’m grateful that I can say I’m doing ok! And I’m grateful that I’ve been able to reconnect with friends / have been able to virtually participate in workshops and readings with writers from different places.
2. What sparked the idea for This I Can Tell You? Is art a compulsion, a goal, or something different for you?
I probably would not have written This I Can Tell You when I did, had I not been required to write a manuscript as my thesis, senior year of college. However, I’ve always written about my life because writing is what I use to process. At the time, I was not confident that I could write a book about anything else, and I needed an outlet for all that was boiling over. In these scenarios, writing is a compulsion, but at times it can also be a goal, to keep structured. When I’m in the swing of writing and reading every day, it is easier for me to generate an idea and quite honestly, function better cognitively and emotionally. The compulsion still exists if the structure isn’t there, but it is faint, and the result will often resemble mush.
3. What does your writing process look like? What is your ideal writing environment?
I tend to read before I write as a general warm-up, like starting your car ahead of time in the winter. This can result in writing as a response, whether I get inspired by a theme, a subject, a concept, or even the language itself. When I take the short cut of diving in, my writing process frequents the same thought through forty sentences until it feels right. Before I know it, three hours have passed, and the intended point still isn’t made. Part of that is because I distract myself by editing while I write.
If I could, I would write outside year-round.
4. Writing can be a lot of work, what's the worst job you ever had?
I can look back semi-fondly about most of my jobs, even the ones I hated, because they gave me writing material or helped me learn some sort of skill. So by that definition, my worst would have to be when I worked at Five Below, eight years ago. The schedule changed each week, which wasn’t unusual, but we would also have an additional “on call” shift, which really was unnecessary for a job that paid about $5 an hour after taxes.
The only thing that got me through each shift, was that my coworkers were all kind and friendly people. The managers on the other hand, were unhelpful and rude, belittling at whatever chance they got. I’ve experienced that at almost every job I’ve ever had, but never—in any other situation—while the High School Musical Soundtrack played on a loop in the background. I did not stick around long enough to learn interpersonal skills to tolerate or combat it. It probably says more about me than the job, but besides learning how to work a register and properly fold a t-shirt, I don’t remember taking anything away from that experience besides free glitter lip gloss and my first public panic attack.
5. I loved how the speaker is constantly evaluating and reevaluating the people in her life, her experiences. Has writing This I Can Tell You changed the way you understand your childhood?
When I first began writing This, I had a steady chip of bitter on my shoulder. Each time I returned to edit, I revised. I suppose some of it started because I did not want to put negative energy out there about my family—I felt a need to protect them. My mentality shifted. I started justifying why the beginning of my life was the way that it was, and why the people in it were and are who they are. As I wrote, I understood everything and everyone a little more; I wasn’t just telling the reader, but myself. Gradually with each draft, I felt myself heal as my perceptions changed.
6. On pg 107, you wonder if your “anecdotes are smoothing out fine detail like a pumice stone on foot,” speaking to a fear we all have about documenting the facts of our lives, and in doing so, neglecting the stuff that slips through the cracks. How do you find that stuff? How did you strike a balance between honesty and story?
It was important to keep within the concept of memory, especially to keep myself accountable. I made note when I was unsure of something, even if that meant contradicting myself. To archive it all is way to gain a reader’s trust in a narrator that admits to fault. I knew I was trying to make some sense out of what I knew, but also that there was so much I didn’t know or remember. The intention was that if I doubted myself within the text (the way I have a habit of doing in life) it would send the signal of ‘take it with a grain of salt,’ since the reader is only getting one perspective in the narrator. That’s why there are shifts in the tone of the speaker, when they are breaking the fourth wall and addressing the writing within the writing. I never felt inclined or pressured to embellish anything for the sake of the narrative. If anything, I had to tone it back, to redact. I don’t feel as though those omissions are lies, but more so intended cracks you can peer into.
7. This leads to my question about family in memoir. How did you navigate the issue of respecting their privacy while telling your story?
I initially wrote very bluntly as I was nestled in the safeness of my writing class. My approach shifted over time as I noticed the neglect in my language, through writing “my” rather than “our.” I had to make sure I was only sharing what I had agency to share. I’ve tried to be as open about it with my family as I could, often asking for them to clarify or confirm specifics of a memory, etc. By their reactions and the various answers that I’ve received, I was able to see where fogginess lingered, but also what they were comfortable with. I imagine it’s easy for them to expect the worst, knowing I’m spilling some sort of bean. For the most part, my family is very private, so I know there is some uneasiness, but it comes mixed with immense support—so I suppose it really is an unfair position to put them in. For months, I handed my siblings redacted copies until I realized that if they couldn’t read a certain page, no one else could either. I didn’t want shock value or to be explicit for the sake of it. Over time, I scaled back certain details as it was triggering, even for me, to read my own words.
8. In your book, you mentioned some supernatural experiences. What has been your most memorable?
Whenever I would go on break from college, I would stay in my old bedroom at my mother’s house, like everyone else, but each time I would regret not bringing sage. (I of course already knew the house was haunted at this point.) One night, I could hear someone walking up and down the stairs. As soon as they reached the bottom, they turned and came back up again. And it would repeat. I could hear the distinct creak of each stair, of the weight placed on it. The first few times, I figured my mom went downstairs, forgot something, went back upstairs to get it, then down again. But every now and again, the footsteps would reach the top of the steps and therefore my closed bedroom door. Again, I would hear weight being balanced on old wood, and the slight shuffle of a slipper. I thought maybe my mother was trying to listen to see if I was awake—maybe I made a noise that I didn’t realize? But as it continued, the process over and over, I knew it wasn’t her. To make sure, I opened the door and checked. No one was there. The next morning, she asked me what I was doing walking up and down the stairs all night.
9. Speaking of ghosts, which ghost of literature would you want to hang out with for a night?
I would hang out with the figurative ghost that is Munis, from Women Without Men: A Novel of Modern Iran, by Shahrnush Parsipur (translated by Faridoun Farrokh). I say figurative because technically, Munis dies twice but comes back to life each time. Refusing to follow the confinements of women under Iranian patriarchy (taking place in 1953, I believe), Munis’ only escape is death. When she returns to life, she returns more powerful, with abilities she never had before, such as an awareness of herself and others. It is a really beautiful novella as a whole; I wish I remembered more of it, but it has been about eight years since I have read it. I cannot forget Munis though, or her incredible fight and journey, for a self and soul-fulfilling life. The strength and courage of her character overall, have remained with me.
10. Your lovely book reminds me of those giant wall mosaics composed of hundreds of photographs that, when arranged together, form a bigger picture. What inspired you to use this structure?
It happened organically, because of what I had to work with. My memories did not flood to me in any order; I had to figure out where they belonged in the timeline I was trying to piece together. In the earliest drafts, pages and chapters had to be swapped/rearranged until they made sense. It was also difficult because I would often unlock more memories, often having to distance myself for clarity.
Amongst the chaos of my navigation, my professor lent me her copy of Jane: A Murder, by Maggie Nelson. It was my first time experiencing that type of hybrid genre. Nelson’s book took many forms—from poetry, to uncovered journal entries, to prose, etc. It felt like a bible; it opened me up to a whole new way of writing.
Preorders for This I Can Tell You are open at Perennial-Press.com. The official release is March 31, 2021. Follow @perennial_press on instagram & twitter to stay tuned about upcoming announcements, including (virtual) readings, which are in the works with two Philly bookstores!
More info about Brandi Spering and her work can be found at Brandispering.com / Instagram: @brnd_sprng
Other recently published chapbooks by Perennial Press:
How to Stop the Burning by Zubaida Bello
The Odds Against A Starry Cosmos by Abby Bland
Millennial Dogeater by Marinna Benson
Brandi Spering resides in South Philadelphia where she writes, sews, and paints. Favoring non-fiction and poetry above else, her writing tends to sway between both, carrying a little over each time. Spering has received her BFA in Creative Writing from Pratt Institute. Her work can be found in super / natural: art and fiction for the future, Forum Magazine, Artblog, and elsewhere.
Jenna Geisinger is the Online Editor for SVJ. She is a fiction writer from South Jersey with an MFA from William Paterson University. Her short stories have been anthologized in The Masters Review and Philadelphia Stories.
