what would happen if the camera/ knocked against the table? what would happen if we/
became aware of a presence just behind the lens, manipulating?
became aware of a presence just behind the lens, manipulating?
So asks one poem in The Diegesis, co-authored by Joshua Young and Chas Hoppe. Likewise, the entire collection keeps exploring and stretching the concepts of storytelling, film-making, observer and observed. It’s a strange, intriguing, delightfully-disorienting book--I love how it plays with the idea of the written word as a film/performance for the reader.
I was eager to ask Young, who is also a filmmaker and musician, some questions after reading this book.
NOTE: (Be sure to watch the book trailer above, which appears with the permission of the authors.)
Q: While reading The Diegesis, all I could think about was the concept of space and place, as it figures into storytelling. You (and your co-author, Chas Hoppe) pull us, the reader, into “the diegetic space.” The pieces in this book feature settings marked for creating and narrating: the frame, the editing booth, Disneyland, an auditorium, footnotes beneath the main text, the interior of cars, trap doors.
I’m wondering about where these pieces take place, for you...what is the world that you envision this book, and your other writing, occurring in? Not the literal setting, of course---but what kinds of images/sounds/ideas do you associate with creating? What are your tricks for entering and inhabiting the space your writing creates?
A: While writing The Diegesis, Chas and I talked early on about this being a film of some sort. He claims that I said right away it would be a documentary. I don't remember that, but it sounds like something I would say. I guess it's got that feel to it. If the book had a setting it would be two places in Washington, blurred together: Seattle and Bellingham. Chas and I met in Bellingham, but we both grew up near Seattle. So there's this camera just moving around, capturing images, actions, scenes, dialogue, people, dogs, cars, etc, etc. But the camera is doing more than that---it's subjective because it chooses what it wants to see; it's subjective because we're aren't just capturing, we are digging into it. Right now, I'm reaching composition and I'm trying to talk to these young writers about how to "unpack" an idea. I like to think that Chas and I are constantly unpacking what our camera captures, commenting, questioning, revising, interrupting, and so on.
