Korean Culture - Fall 2001

Voice of a New Generation of Korean Americans:

An interview with Novelist Leonard Chang

By Jinhee Kim

The sense of community and cultural unity that was so readily identifiable in the lives of early Korean immigrants to the United States is not nearly as visible in the works by second-generation Korean American writers. Despite the obvious prosperity and wealth that Koreans have garnered since the 1960's, a sense of cultural rootlessness and political marginality looms large in the writings of the second-generation Korean American writers. At the center of their emotional disenfranchisement stands the death of the family. Nowhere is this theme more apparent than in the fictional universe created by the San Francisco-based, thirty-two-year old novelist Leonard Chang.

More and more Korean descendants will grow up in America without learning their parents' mother tongue, national history, or cultural memories. This dislocation of cultural heritage will intensify with the passage of time, and the sense of diaspora--typically represented through patriotism, longing for the homeland, and the struggle for new identity--will gradually be replaced by different kinds of emotions. The disconnection with their heritage could push second-generation Korean Americans to develop an apathetic attitude to their parents' homeland. As Allen Choice, the protagonist of Over the Shoulder, Chang's latest novel, amply demonstrates, the ideological landscape to which second-generation Korean Americans chose to subscribe may be quite different from the one chosen by first-generation Korean Americans.

Chang's characters loom large as souls of a lost generation, symbols for a voiceless, faceless people lost within the melting pot that is America. They struggle with the emotional vacuums in their lives and the sense of dwelling in a cultural wilderness. These problems confront many second-generation Korean Americans as they attempt to make sense of the immigration experience inherited from their Korean parents. His sensitive handling of such issues makes Leonard Chang the voice of a new generation of Korean Americans.

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Q: It seems that writing suits you, to say the least. When did you first realize you wanted to become a writer?

A: The actual concrete thought of "I want to be a writer" didn't occur until high school, when my best friend and I, both avid readers, decided to write a novel together. Only then did I realize that this was a legitimate and possibly even realistic goal for myself. Before that I had written stories and essays for school and received a small amount of praise, and I had always read novels (having lived just two blocks away from the Merrick Library), but I didn't even think of it as a profession until Joe and I started writing chapters together. I thought, "I really like doing this."

Q: Is there an autobiographical element to your stories?

A: I think any good writer will use autobiographical elements to help feed his or her characters, and I can't help not use bits of myself and others I know to render a character or situation. My first impulse as a writer was an autobiographical one, and my early short stories had strong personal currents that I think I needed to test and even exorcise. Now I'm more subtle and canny in my use of autobiography, and the older I get, the more I know about people, so there's not as strong a need to dip into the self for verisimilitude.

Q: How many hours do you spend on writing a day? Do you have a rigid schedule or are you spontaneous?

A: I wouldn't say my schedule is rigid, but it's certainly disciplined; it would be impossible for me to work on a novel without a regular routine. So, I tend to work in the early mornings, often before dawn (I like waking up and moving about while it's still dark), and then try to peck out new material for at least a few hours. I'll often work on revisions, editing, or other kinds of writing in the afternoons, depending on my teaching schedule. However, the mornings are the key for me. I need that routine because creativity is so ephemeral, and you never know when (or if) that convergence of inspiration, story, and character will hit, so you must be prepared for when it strikes--and that, for me, means keeping at it regularly. You must be available for the muse.

Q: You seem to have a very clear idea as to what kind of literature is "serious" and what not. Do you consider yourself a writer of serious literature?

A: Do I demarcate serious literature from other kinds? I don't recall doing that, though I'm very serious about my commitment to fiction and what it can do for readers. I consider myself a serious writer of fiction, though I'll skirt the issue of what's "literature" since that seems more of a question about the Canon than what moves and affects readers. If at times I sound somber, it's probably because writing is so difficult, and often readers don't realize the tremendous effort writers put into a scene, a sentence, or a word. I think anything can be "serious" literature, as long as the writer takes the work itself seriously. So, even the prose on a can of bug spray can be serious. One of the most famous slogans in advertising is "Raid kills bugs dead." This was written by Lew Welsh, a beat poet who freelanced as a copy writer. Look at the elegance of that slogan. The extra "dead" emphasizes the effect of Raid, and the short, staccato rhythm helps highlight the precision and simplicity of the insecticide. It's not easy to come up with that kind of elegance, even for a can of bug spray.

Q: Which authors do you read and why? Do you read any works by Korean American writers?

A: I read voraciously, and don't necessarily have a preference for one kind of author over another. I often will read novels and non-fiction that address something I want or need at a particular moment in my life; so when I was learning to write I was consumed by coming-of-age novels, and searched everywhere for every coming-of-age novel I could find. Or, when I was writing The Fruit 'N Food, I wanted a sense of how other writers dealt with the intersection of races, and revisited many of my favorite African American writers like James Baldwin and Ralph Ellison. As for Korean American writers, I try to read those that are recommended to me, and there are a few writers, like Richard Kim, who were very important to me when I was just starting out. I was lucky enough to meet Richard Kim once-since he's kind of a recluse-and talk about writing. And of course if Chang-rae Lee, Heinz Insu Fenkl, Helie Lee, or the new crop of Korean American writers publishes a new book, I seek it out.

Q: All of your protagonists are Korean American males. Thomas Pak in The Fruit 'N Food, Roger Shin in Dispatches from the Cold, and Allen Choice in Over the Shoulder. It is obvious you made a deliberate choice to make Korean Americans the focus of your novels. When you tell a story, why is the elaboration of a Korean American experience significant?

A: I write the stories that I want to read. One of my criteria for deciding what to write is I try to answer the question, "What do you want to read but can't find out there?" I see little point in writing novels that have already been written, and writing has always been a way for me to feed my hunger for books. When I run out of things to read, when I can't find the kind of novel that will nourish me, I produce my own food. Thus, I want to read about Korean Americans, and when I can't find the book that fulfills this desire, I write it. I am aware of the paucity of novels out there that deal with the Korean American experience, but my desire to write is not necessarily a generous one; I don't presume to think that I'm a voice that others listen to; I don't presume to be a spokesperson or example, which seems to be very egotistic; no, I'm starting out from the simple position of a lover of novels, of stories, of books, and my writing is a natural extension of that.

Q: What kind of research did you do for your books?

A: It depends on the book, on the stories and characters involved. Often I'll need to do a large amount of research, including interviews, extensive reading, and visiting places. I don't mind research at all, and writing novels gives me the perfect excuse to dive into huge texts that I might not otherwise be able to justify to myself. In the name of research, I can go nuts in a bookstore, I can go to a rave, I can interview convicts, I can watch Nova, and I can eat snails.

Q: Walk us through the process of your writing. How do you start? And when do you know your book is finished?

A: Generally I start with characters and sketches. I'll try to write scenes that may or may not appear in the novel, but which I need to do in order for me to learn more about the characters. I'll slowly begin thinking about the overarching story, the direction in which the characters might move, the relationships, the backgrounds. As I write more and more--and this could often be dozens and dozens of pages--I begin getting a better idea of where I want to go. Then I write exploratory and very, very rough drafts as I move from conception to birth. I'll often write different versions of the same story, different viewpoints or different angles of characters and stories, until I get closer to what feels right. This process usually involves many drafts, a lot of extraneous material that never makes it into the final draft, but is an important process for me. A novel is never quite finished, since there's always more to do, changes I can make, but as I hone the prose and add the shading, I begin feeling more satisfied with what I have, and that usually means I'm close to showing others the manuscript.

Q: You mentioned that your two first novels are based on the notion of transgression. What do you mean by that?

A: The characters often violate the law, and move outside of the norms of society. They often live and work on the fringes in some way, whether it's a geographical fringe or a class-based or race-based fringe. Many of the characters will flout convention and authority, and sometimes act in an inward, almost solipsistic way that often intrudes on the lives of others. All this is speculation, however, since it's never a good idea to ask an author to interpret his or her own work. It's probably better to leave that to the professionals.

Q: Over the Shoulder is very different from your first two books in its tenor and style. How did those changes occur?

A: Again, it goes back to the previous question of how I decide to start a new novel, and for Over the Shoulder I wanted to write a crime novel that dealt with a Korean American protagonist. At the same time I wanted to explore the issues of family and legacies, of isolation and connections, all within a format that would compel me, as a reader, forward. Because the novel is in the voice of Allen Choice, the protagonist, the style and voice of the writing reflects his point-of-view and his personality.

Q: What projects are you working on now? And say a word or two about the manuscripts that you have already finished.

A: I used to talk about works-in-progress, but I've found that doing so seems to dissipate some of the energy I have stored for the novel; it makes it more difficult for the writing process to air the stories before they're on paper. So I've decided to talk less about current projects only because, as I mentioned earlier, the creative process is so tenuous that I'm extremely sensitive (and superstitious) about anything that might potentially harm it. In other words, I respectfully decline to comment for it may be detrimental to the project(s) at hand.

Q: You have been teaching creative writing courses, and have recently accepted a new teaching position. Does teaching help you in your own writing?

A: Not really. I enjoy teaching for the personal contact and the opportunity for me to talk about writing and books, but teaching, like anything else that occupies time better served for writing (at least for me), can be creatively draining. Teaching helps my critical abilities, perhaps, since I often have to articulate a criticism and elaborate on a possible solution, when otherwise I might go through the same process more internally and instinctively. Teaching forces a critical rigor in the analysis of fiction and fiction writing, and that's great for the students, since it spells out for them certain things they ought to know, but this isn't necessarily great for the teacher, who, if he or she wants to write novels, ought to be writing novels.

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About the interviewer:

JINHEE KIM is an assistant professor in the Department of East Asian Languages and Cultures and Comparative Literature at the University of Southern California, where she teaches literary theory, cultural studies, and twentieth-century Korean literature.