Interview with Bojana Stojcic, author of Knives All Blade

For years now I’ve been following Bojana Stojcic whose work has been published in a whole slew of online magazines. Recently she pulled together a collection of her short short and flash fiction pieces for DarkWinter Press, an independent publishing company located in Ontario Canada that wants “your weird, your traditional with a twist, your humour, your dark thoughts, or your elation. We’re open to anything—just make it interesting. Make us think.” They certainly hit the ball out of the park with Bojana. Her work does all of those things.



Imagine, if you will, Bojana and I are sitting at an outdoor cafe in Munich, which is her current home, discussing her book.


From Bing Images

Jan: Thank you for stopping by for tea to discuss your new book! I must say, you look divine. Not at all the frazzled writer! As I was reading your book I kept thinking: this writer is a chameleon who’s not going to let readers pigeon hole her work. At times, wise and witty (“today I am a future pile of dust like you.”) and at other times raw to the bone (“I need evidence that I’m alive.”) Is there a writer with whom you most identify?

Bojana: There are a lot of writers I look up to but, rather than identifying with any particular writer, what matters more to me is to identify as one. Writing doesn’t come easily to me. I know some people who write prolifically, whether it be essays or blog posts or poetry. I’m not one of them, although that doesn’t stop me from wondering what specific mindset allows someone to write that much. Then I find comfort in the thought that fiction requires a somewhat different approach. An author summed up writing fiction beautifully: the first draft is like getting lost in the woods, editing is your map and revision finding your way back out. And, to quote Robert Frost, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep.” It’s easy to get lost in them.

Writing means observing, listening, reflecting. It also means research and regularity. Most importantly, to be a writer, you have to read like one, which is precisely what I do. As someone who is more curious about how than wow, I analyze instead of getting lost in the story. I study characters thoroughly, reread interesting dialogues, monologues and descriptions, I pay attention to the sentence structure. Finally, I contemplate the word choice to better understand the motivations and conflicts. I need to think long and hard about every single detail, always keeping in mind the emotion I’d like to provoke. I need my readers to feel the horror, envy, anger. I want them to grieve with my protagonists, to ache with them, to be equally disgusted or brokenhearted or utterly apathetic and withdrawn. Like in real life. It’s easy to judge. What’s way harder is to understand someone’s reluctance to make any effort to change or improve things. To show compassion and a willingness to believe that choosing pain doesn’t always mean making the wrong choice.

Jan: Is there an example of what you mean in one of your stories?

Bojana: Yes. In Once You Have a Duvet, You’ll Be Fine

Jan: You hear a lot about flash fiction these days, but how is it different from short stories and does the genre have anything to do with the title of your book? You know, knives cutting like editors editing?

Bojana: For the record, I came up with the recurring knives and blades symbolism after I’d written at least a dozen stories, when I realized I could be actually working on a book. The thing is, I needed a strong metaphor, some sort of a unifying idea which would put together seemingly dissimilar things and, since I’m a huge fan of everything chilling and eerie in storytelling, blades seemed like a good choice, as they only further stressed the emotional turmoil and expectations the protagonists had to cope with.

Back to flash fiction which is actually a shorter version of a short story, its length normally not exceeding 1,000 words. Plenty of editors/publishers are pretty specific about publishing one, but not necessarily the other, which is why I like to call Knives All Blade a collection of short stories and flash fiction. Let’s put it this way: flash fiction tries to tell big, rich, complex stories quickly and concisely, each word carefully chosen to convey emotion and atmosphere. For me, telling a story compressed into limited language, without wasting time or space, is what’s most challenging about it.

One of the keys to flash fiction is a sense of urgency. The point is to start in medias res, to throw readers right into the thick of it. This creates a sense of immediacy and helps build tension, as it raises questions that readers will be able to answer only if they go on reading. I enjoy writing intense, gripping stories, pulling readers by the heart without releasing tension from the beginning to that climax, every scene compelling them to hold their breath or stop breathing altogether. It’s a process. It takes time to learn the ropes. To learn how to build tension and when to slow things down, how to effectively use a mix of long and short sentences to communicate the protagonists’ thoughts and feelings, how to surprise the reader, write a story that inverts themes.

Jan: Can you give us an example of what you mean by sense of urgency and stories that invert themes?

Bojana: Here’s an example of urgency from Life to the Throat

A knife will always manage to surprise you, like your period," I told my little girl, giving her one as a gift when she started bleeding. "That blood running prepares you for pregnancy. Learn how to use it."

I wish I'd had one. I was so confused.

Regarding “inverts themes” that would be hard, if not impossible, to name an example here because the twist/resolution happens literally in the very end, so you’d have to know the whole story to understand. A good example would be Beyond the Ditches when you come to realize it’s not a story about the challenges of being a mother, but about childlessness. (It was all in her mind, making up the kid as either a copying mechanism or impact of trauma.) Or, say How to Skin a Dogfish when zio Luigi becomes a likely murderer and we see that K is actually a parrot, not a child. Or maybe Once You Have a Duvet … again.

Unknown to her, a letter arrived from court in late January, saying an eviction order had been placed on the house, that she had seven days to leave the property. Her husband stopped paying the mortgage, full of surprises as ever. All the while she waited for him under a tree, blossom-fringed branches bowing toward the ground, as if begging for forgiveness. Waited with bated breath to say I tried so hard to stop the situation getting this far, to see what he would say about her leaving him.

Flash fiction isn’t plot-heavy, thank god. It’s all about capturing moments, and sparking the imagination, which enabled me to put more emphasis on character development. That being said, each story required a different approach. And yes, some were definitely more difficult to tell than the others. It wasn’t always easy to translate all those images and ideas into actual words that carried a story along. That’s something I had to learn as well. To stop fretting about details or editing every little thing. The first draft is ugly for a reason.

There’s more to it, of course. If I didn’t know enough about a subject, for example, I would do research, go back to reading. Slowly and critically. This also included reading relevant books, news, articles, blogs, etc, as well as essays on human behavior to better understand personality development and create believable stories and layered characters that the reader can relate to. Writers need to understand people because we write for people, about people.

Jan: Yes indeed. Thanks for stopping by and spending some time with me. I hope that Knives All Blade will get the widespread attention it deserves.


Lovely Readers, I know many of you write flash fiction, do you have any questions for Bojana?

Perhaps a bit of wine was involved

Okay. I did it. Finally launched the ebook version of Happy Hour and Other Sorrows. I attempted to also launch the paperback but Amazon claimed the ISBN was assigned to another book which was BS but try arguing with Amazon on a Sunday night after a bit of wine (for courage) might have been involved.

Yes, those of you on the side of color were absolutely right. The mostly black and white doesn’t work. So I’ll be changing the cover as soon as our weather turns cool and rainy again. Today temps are set to hit the eighties (80s) and so as soon as I finish this post, I’ll be outside in the garden! But there’s no need to rush. This book contains no sex, no real violence, no zombies and very little bad language. It’ll never go anywhere! I’m just happy to be done with it after soooo many years and iterations.

In other news. I’m really excited to announce an upcoming interview with Bojana Stojcic regarding a book of flash fiction she wrote entitled Knives All Blade. Here’s a teaser:

She’s a fascinating writer/poetess who seems to have a handle on the flash fiction genre. I keep asking her more questions about the subject because, as long time followers know, I’ve got a real thing for short stories in all their various forms.

But not today – it’s glorious outside for at least one more day!

Happy Tuesday!

To color or not … that is the question

I’m going to bore you all once again with mock-ups for cover of the book I’m hoping to get out the door soon. I really need your help. Here’s the original which a few folks thought needed some color.

So I added a bit of color. Obviously I’m not a cartoonist. My husband came by and said “Are you taking up coloring now?”

So I don’t know. Is the choo-choo train a little too much? Green bubbles a bit icky?

I woke up this morning with an absolutely fabulous idea for the back cover. No synopsis or bio. No glowing reviews but just this:

I know it’s not very professional but I honestly don’t expect to set the world on fire with this little book (only 48k words). I just promised someone I would republish it once I got the kinks out and she’s gone now.

What’s your opinion: Colored cartoons or not?

Choo choo train or no choo-choo train?

Thanks!

The Third Month

Welcome to Month 3 on the Japanese Midori Calendar. Or March, as it’s known on many western calendars. In my part of the world it’s an unpredictable month. Current predictions have rain and even thunderstorms in the forecast although yesterday I wandered barefoot in the garden.

The symbol for the third month amidst plum blossoms. What do you think? Or perhaps they are cherry blossoms?

Only one day is marked as a holiday on the calendar: March 20 which is the Vernal Equinox. According to Wiki, it’s a day to honor the dead and pray for good crops to come. It’s also the birthday of my youngest nephew who is an adventurer and first class risk taker. Luckily he’s been lucky but auntie still worries!

My nephew Erik. Yes, he’s a hunk but he’s a married hunk! And she’s a daredevil just like him. My other nephew was born on the 25th but he’s more of a family man. Auntie doesn’t worry too much about him!

This third month of the year is already packing quite a wallop in my country. After giving in to the hatred and fear-mongering, I believe most Americans will realize that the country is being run by idiots and sycophants, that rich men are not necessarily wise or compassion and that a change must be made. Americans who do not support Ukraine against Russian aggression are willfully ignorant of history and the rest of us may be doomed to suffer for their ignorance. Let’s hope not.

Happy Hour and Other Sorrows

I haven’t been around lately because I’m planning to re-release two books I wrote over ten years ago. The first one Flipka has a modified ending but otherwise is the same wacky tale described here. The second book has undergone a different POV and will get a new name. Readers had complained they didn’t know what the heroine would do next. That’s not an issue any more!

Rough draft for the cover. Do you think it needs more color?

Many decades ago I spent the week before Christmas hanging out at the Officer’s Club in Worms Germany with military personnel, primarily civilian, who’d opted not to return to the states for the holidays. The club had been decorated for the season with plastic poinsettias and cinnamon scented candles. Canned Christmas carols played. Drinks and bar food were half off but it was still a dreary place. One evening I sat at a table with a be-speckled young man who barely looked up at me as he scribbled on a notepad.

He was a cartoonist for various publications distributed to military personnel.

It was fascinating to watch him work. But eventually Happy Hour was over. I told him how much I loved his work – having spent many a Happy Hour waiting for my uncle to finishing schmoozing with his co-workers so that I could drive him home. And he handed me the drawings.

I wish I’d caught his name but I was so young. At least I had the sense to hold onto his scribbles and the memory of that evening all these years ago.

When I was thinking of a new title, those cartoons came to mind. And a record my uncle used to play …. every damn evening! Stanyan Streets and Other Sorrows by Rod McKuen. And every damn evening it got stuck on the same song:

For a while the only earth that Sloopy knew was her sandbox
Two rooms on 55th Street was her domain
Every night she’d sit in the window among the avocado plants
Waiting for me to come home
My arms filled with canned liver and love
We’d talk into the night then contented but missing something
She, the earth she never knew, me, the hills I ran while growing bent
Sloopy should have been a cowboy’s cat
With prairies to run, not linoleum
And real live catnip mice
No one to depend on but herself
I never told her but in my mind I was a midnight cowboy even then
Riding my imaginary horse down 42nd street
Going off with strangers to live an hour long cowboy’s life
But always coming home to Sloopy who loved me best
For a dozen summers we lived against the world an island on an island
She’d comfort me with purring
I’d fatten her with smiles
We grew rich on trust needing not the beach or butterflies
I had a friend named Ben who painted buildings like Rouault men
He went away
My laughter tired Lillian after a time
She found a man who only smiled
But Sloopy stayed and stayed
Winter 1959 old men walk their dogs
Some are walked so often that their feet
Leave little pink tracks in the soft gray snow
Woman fur on fur
Elegant and easy only slightly pure
Hailing cabs to take them round the block and back
Who is not a love seeker when December comes?
Even children pray to Santa Claus
I had my own love safe at home
And yet I stayed out all one night and the next day too
They must of thought me crazy screaming Sloopy Sloopy
As the snow came falling down around me
I was a madman to have stayed away
One minute more than the appointed hour
I’d like to think a golden cowboy snatched her from the window sill
And safely saddle bagged she rode to Arizona
She’s stalking lizards in the cactus now perhaps, bitter, but free
I’m bitter too
And not a free man anymore
But once was a time in New York’s jungle in a tree
Before I went into the world in search of other kinds of love
Nobody owned me, but a can named Sloopy
Looking back perhaps she’s been the only human thing
That ever gave love back to me

The Purification

The Midori Calendar I received for Christmas

Here in California, February is an odd month. The daffodils have started to sprout from the ground and the camellias are blossoming …

But an atmospheric river has just begun to hit the region and with it, rain. For at least the next five days. Rain.

If you’ll notice, the Japanese do not celebrate the same holidays as we do. There’s no Groundhog Day or Valentine’s Day or President’s Day. Instead the Japanese celebrate something called National Foundation Day on the 11th. It’s sort of like their July 4th. There will be parades, etc.

I’m not even going to attempt a “Japanese History for Dummies” lesson here because their history is mind boggling. February 24 they celebrate the Emperor’s birthday. Unlike our President’s Day, this day honors the birthday of their current emperor, Emperor Naruhito, who was born on Feb. 23, 1960. He seems like a nice enough fellow but from what I’ve read he has less power than King Charles of England.

I imagine this is the symbol for February in Japanese. So elegant don’t you think?

February is from the Latin word meaning either purification or cleansing or fertility or all three for all I know. I awoke this morning feeling energetic for the first time since, well I don’t know when. Certainly since November 5th.

I hope you all awoke feeling energetic. Be prepared. February will go really fast and then comes the Ides of March! Et tu, who-know-who?

They swayed like branches in the wind …

This one’s for Charlie Dills

There have been many movies made about life in post WWII Germany (The Third Man, The Spy Who Came in From the Cold, etc., etc.) that portrayed American GIs who stayed behind as profiteers or spies. The reality is, many were broken men who didn’t want to pretend the world would ever be free from evil. They worked for the Army, mostly in logistics, married European women, adopted European traditions and spent too much time at the Officer’s Club enjoying Happy Hour every night.

Occupied Germany, circa 1970

As a nineteen year old hippy dippy (love will save the world!) I loved hearing their stories and I think they were amused by my naivete. To a point and then I’m sure I was very annoying. It’s one thing to read about the millions of people – Jews, Catholics, Poles, Roma, Sinti, Soviets POWs, gays, priests, members of the resistance – targeted for elimination by the Nazis. It’s quite another to talk to someone who helped liberate one of those camps.

“I saw thousands of people whom the Red Army has saved – people so thin that they swayed like branches in the wind, people whose ages one could not possibly guess.”

Boris Polevoy, correspondent for Pravda

So, on this eightieth anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, I’m remembering you Charlie Dills.

From my WIP which at this point is resting:

The train had passed through Switzerland on a cloudy night, thus, there had been little to see out the window, only the blur of lights as they’d passed through town after town without slowing down. Charlie’d watched her curiously for a while and then his eyes closed and his head slipped against the window. For the rest of the night he lay like a broken doll in that position. At one time, he’d probably been a handsome young man, she thought, like Gregory Peck, tall and dark with prominent features and soft eyes before the alcohol and cigarettes had taken their toll. Now he looked beyond repair.

Outside their cabin, the Italians partied all night long, laughing and sometimes arguing. Loudly and without a care for first class passengers who might want some shut eye. They were going home for the winter where presumably they’d have plenty of time to sleep. Riley didn’t know what awaited her except a long drive home through Switzerland with the saddest man on the planet.