Patrick O'Leary
Interview by Gavin J. Grant

Patrick O'Leary is becoming one of the most interesting writers to slide across the field of fiction in recent years. In his novels (The Gift, Door Number 3, and his latest, The Impossible Bird) O'Leary's writing agilely skips between aspects of science fiction and fantasy, thrillers, and mysteries while taking on huge issues of life and death. Last year his first collection of short fiction and other writing, Other Voices, Other Doors was published. After meeting O'Leary at World Fantasy Convention in lovely Montreal in October, we interviewed him (who lives in Michigan) by email.

BookSense.com: Where did the initial impulse for The Impossible Bird come from?

Patrick O'Leary: Initial impulses are slippery little buggers. Sort of like asking what happened before the Big Bang. Two brothers estranged, trying to merge, to reconcile.… I had a black-and-white image of an ultrasound echocardiogram of a transplanted heart. That image sustained me for a few years, though it didn't make the final draft. It is both an image of death and resurrection. The novel, through its many swervings, stayed pretty true to that initial impulse.

Why did this image have so much resonance for you?

Who knows? I could say the book allowed me to work through some of the emotions of my difficult relationship with my older brother. We were best friends in childhood. Estranged after that in adulthood. We really went two separate paths. When he was young he was IQ-tested genius level. He became a musician, a junkie, a biker, and a criminal, and consequently caused my family a lot of grief. He died of a cocaine/heroin overdose that caused a brain aneurysm in 1988, so reconciliation was impossible. Emotionally, the book was fueled by this sense of betrayal and love and loss. None of which makes it a good book. But that was the itch I had to scratch.

When you started out on this novel, did you know where it was going to end up?

I never do, I always always write as a reader. I discover what happens next. And yet, based on that first image, one can see that I had (on some level) the whole book in my head. And The Impossible Bird became a process of discovering what I already knew but did not know I knew. The challenge was to get out of the story's way, to let it tell itself. The unconscious is so much wiser than what we call "me." It knew what I had to learn, what I needed to say. And it led me, or dragged me through much painful psychic territory I would have gladly avoided altogether. So, I didn't know where the book was going, but someone else did.

This process may sound mysterious to some people. But I am convinced we all go through it every day. Think about intuitions, that tingling feeling you get when you stand next to a familiar stranger. Or the dozens of unconscious decisions we make when we are driving. We are not who we appear to be. In many ways we are strangers to ourselves. Every writer knows what I'm talking about, though they may play the game differently than I. They know when it's good, it's gifted to them.

It's the door they didn't know was there that opens a good story. I'm convinced we are all at the mercy of the unconscious. And our task is to bring it to light. If we don't, well, as Jung says, "What is not brought to consciousness is acted out as fate."

Have you always written in this way?

Always. I never have an intention or a design. I simply tell the story as it comes -- and spare the reader my first 50 drafts. That's where the craft is involved.

Would you say you're a Jungian?

Yes. I've studied him and have a great respect for his central insights. Much of what he says I do not understand. The rest I find breathtaking and critical. I've only had a few sessions of strict "Jungian" therapy, but I can attest to their practicality. For those new to Carl Jung I'd recommend his autobiography, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, as an accessible starting point.

The problem with Jung's work is its seductive philosophical jargon. One can become mesmerized by his grand concepts and forget they are meant to be used in real life. So you find some students of Jung who talk the talk, but are unable or unwilling to walk the walk. They get stuck in this edifice of words, and Jung isn't about words.

So what would a true Jungian do to follow Jung's path?

It's not a path or a religion. It's a map of the human psyche -- useful in times of internal crisis, useless other times. Therapy can help. I was speaking of the temptation to get lost in Concept Land -- very easy to do with Jung, to get all the jargon down. Jung was talking about something we take for granted -- consciousness. It is very, very difficult to remain conscious. Jung can help us understand why we act the way we do.

Are you interested in dreams as a font for fiction?

Yes. But unfortunately I forget most of my dreams. So they're not very useful to me.

How about in life after death?

No. I see no evidence to suggest it. None. But I am perfectly willing to be surprised. Some Christian friends have harangued me recently about Pascal's "Bet on Eternity -- What have you got to lose?" Horsepucky.

On the other hand, I pray to dead Saint Jude -- Patron Saint of lost causes. And I am a devout if unorthodox theist who believes and loves some sort of immanent transcendent creature I call god. So what do I know about delusion?

Let's not go into Near-Death-Experiences, shall we? Or I will be really tempted to get profound.

How do your books go over with your coworkers?

Most have not read them. The few that have seem to like them. All have been very very supportive.

Without giving anything away, at the heart of The Impossible Bird, there's a conspiracy. Outside of your writing, are you a conspiracy theorist?

You really do think I'm a crank, don't you?

It's the child's wish and fear that the Tooth Fairy is coming, that Santa is watching. So you have fundamentalists who explain suffering with demons. Notice that the "saved" either suffer for penance or purification, and the infidels deserve it. The flip side may be secular gullibility, which posits a vast, exquisitely planned, and infinitely resourced evil bureaucracy, which twiddles with our fates. Strangely, this omnipotent group has not solved world hunger, won the war on drugs, cured cancer, or protected us from a half-assed group of suicidal maniacs.

Hell, even Nixon couldn't pull it off, and if anybody had the means, he surely did. I think, and someone in The Impossible Bird says, that conspiracies are the refuge of soft minds.

For you, what's the difference when you are writing novels, poetry, and short fiction?

It's all writing. It's all hard. I don't see any difference...

Do you approach writing in each form differently? Are there different satisfactions?

I play guitar. Sometimes I fingerpick. Sometimes I strum. Sometimes I use open tuning. Sometimes, bar chords. Sometimes I play jazz. Sometimes folk. Sometimes rock. Last week I taught myself to play "Back In Black" by AC/DC -- great song. Sounds kind of wimpy on acoustic, though. Mostly, I improvise. I pick up my rosewood Guild guitar and I play what happens. I have just enough craft (though I neither read nor write music) that I am capable of sounding good. And giving pleasure to myself and others. The irony of this analogy is that I hardly ever play guitar. I mostly play piano. And I suck.

It's all music. It's all play.

I trust I've made myself obscure?

If you worked in a bookshop, what would be on your Staff Picks shelf?

Read Gene Wolfe, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Karen Joy Fowler.

[This is the condensed answer: see Patrick O'Leary's full Staff Picks shelf.]

Further reading:

• Lewis Shiner
• Karen Joy Fowler
• Connie Willis
• Glen David Gold
• Nick Bantock