Corinna Chong‘s first novel, Belinda’s Rings, was published by NeWest Press in 2013. Her debut short story collection, The Whole Animal, and her second novel, Bad Land, were published by Arsenal Pulp Press. She lives in Kelowna, B.C., where she is an English and Fine Arts Professor at Okanagan College.
The Whole Animal is a bold, dark, and gutsy debut short story collection about the best and worst of human bodies and appetites (both literal and figurative). These thirteen powerful stories ground the reader in visceral, corporeal moments of blood, sweat, spit, muscle, grease, and bone. Chong’s characters grapple with how their bodies and desires transform, confuse, fail, surprise (and, occasionally, delight) them as they search for identity, belonging, and autonomy.
Interviewed by Heike Lettrari
Heike Lettrari (HL): Thank you very much for a remarkable set of stories in The Whole Animal. Many of these stories made me say “Ooof!” They reached into a number of tender parts, showing some of the ways that casual and intentional cruelty can hit hard, and really calling empathy up from the depths like a bucket being hauled from a well. The words “guidance for how to grow a bigger heart” popped into my head when I finished the collection. Where did some of these stories come from, or start from?
Corrina Chong (CC): Thank you for your kind comments! I’m happy to hear that many of the stories resonated with you. I appreciate that you see empathy at the heart of them, because I think that’s what I’m always aiming for when I’m writing. I’m interested in exploring the messy, complicated layers of people and their relationships—how their deep-seated fears and anxieties might drive their decisions, whether good or bad, and how they cope with the consequences of those decisions. It’s all too easy to judge others, and much more difficult (and more interesting!) to consider the tangled web of reasons that could have motivated their behaviour. I think that both cruelty and goodness exist in all of us, and seeing that reflected in fiction can hopefully make us feel a little less alone.
I tend to use writing as a way of making sense of difficult problems that are swimming around in my subconscious. I often begin with a single sentence; several of the stories in The Whole Animal, including “Kids in Kindergarten,” “Fixer,” and “Butter Buns” began this way. That sentence suggests a voice that then leads into an internal conflict, and the story builds from there. I also love to use writing prompts when I start a story. Prompts often help me to bring ideas to the surface that I didn’t even know I had, and I think it’s vital to keep finding ways to surprise myself in the writing process. One of my favourite prompts involves generating a list of random nouns and then challenging myself to write a story in which all of those nouns appear. The story “the snare. the arm. the guinea pig. the bottle. the bus. the night.” began this way (hence its unusual title!).
HL: Many of these stories focus on the body – or more exactly, parts of them – legs, buns, a (bison) face, feet and eyelids, and others. What drew you to focus on the body in this way and how did the title of the collection come to you, given the stories’s preoccupation with the parts?
CC: It wasn’t my conscious intention to focus on bodies and body parts as a running theme across these stories. They were written over a period of fifteen years, so some of them now feel to me like they belong to a different writer. It was only in putting these stories together into a book that I recognized how prevalent the imagery of bodies, and, specifically, isolated body parts, was across all of them. However, it makes sense to me that I would keep returning to this kind of imagery, as I’m continuously fascinated by the fraught relationships that people, especially women, have with their bodies, and the disconnect that often exists between the self and the body. I think this has a lot to do with how prevalent body image issues are among women due to the messages we get from media about “ideal” standards of beauty. I think I can safely say that I don’t know any woman who hasn’t struggled to some degree with body image. The way in which we are conditioned to constantly measure every aspect of our bodies against a set of ideals that are impossible to achieve in reality, and how this can lead to a completely distorted image of oneself, even when looking directly into a mirror, is a really complicated and fascinating conundrum to me, and I think it affects one’s ability to develop a broader sense of identity and even a solid understanding of one’s place in the world.
“The Whole Animal” wasn’t originally the title story for the collection; I’d initially pitched the book to my agents as Porcelain Legs. They encouraged me to rethink the title, and my very perceptive writer friends suggested that The Whole Animal might work instead. As soon as they suggested it, I realized how perfect it was. Animals are quite prevalent across these stories (again, unintentionally), but the word “whole” operates in an ironic way. The characters across these stories are, in many ways, the opposite of whole—fragmented, unfulfilled, and alienated from others and even from themselves. Their stories are ultimately about searching for a sense of wholeness that is missing.
HL: You’ve mentioned in a previous interview with James Tennant that the short story is a form that you gravitate towards the more you write them – can you share with us what draws you to them the most? Or what do you love about the form the most at the moment?
CC: The short story is the form in which I find the most joy. For me, stories offer more freedom for play and experimentation. As I mentioned earlier, I like to begin writing a story without a sense of where it will lead me and allow the characters and the imagery to guide the process. Conversely, novels are more constrained by structure and plot. I enjoy working within these constraints as well, but I find that there are fewer opportunities for those surprises that really feed and energize me. I also love the challenge of minimalism in the short story form. I’m in awe of those stories that manage to build rich, multifaceted characters and complex conflicts within a short space, and I’m inspired by the possibility that I might be able to achieve that, too.
HL: I enjoyed the variety in this collection of stories – a variety of perspectives, from first to third and even second. A story told in numbered sections. It gave each one another way to feel unique and thoughtful in composition. Were these intentional choices of form to suit the characters and their narrative? Or when you were working on these stories, did they ever change in a way as drastic as the changing the perspective?
CC: I think the variety of perspectives is a reflection of my interest in using stories as a way of experimenting and forcing myself a bit outside of my comfort zone. At the same time, choices like point of view and tense are usually very intuitive for me, and I think they’re closely tied to the voice and tone I’m envisioning for the story from the get-go. I rarely change point of view after I’ve begun drafting a story. I think you’ve articulated it well when you ask whether the form is an intentional choice to “suit the characters and their narrative.” My answer would be yes!
That said, “Zora, in the Whirl,” one of the stories that has numbered sections, was the story that went through the most revision and the most drastic changes before it arrived in its finished version. It changed from third to first person and from past to present tense. In addition, the form choices for that story were made quite late in the revision process, when I knew I had to do something drastically different to make the story work. I think playing with form allowed me to more clearly understand what I was really trying to say about this character’s emotional journey.
HL: Many of these stories have incredibly strong visual elements – is this a way that your work in graphic design shows up in your writing? Is it something you’re aware of?
CC: I’ve always known I’m a very visual person. As you mention, I have an art background as well, so it’s no surprise to me that my writing is image-heavy. While I try to lean into this tendency as a strength, I do find myself having to pull back on visual description much of the time. I’ve learned over the years (thanks to many brilliant mentors and fellow writers) that I’m hopelessly devoted to adjectives, and knowing this has helped me to more ruthlessly murder my darlings when called for!
HL: Can you describe your relationship with language? Many of these stories have a lot of alliteration and poetry within them – they are beautifully, evocatively crafted. Does a focus on the sound of the language help create character and drive the story, for you?
CC: Thank you for this comment! Yes, the sound and rhythm of language is extremely important to me when I’m writing. Especially in a short story, where every sentence matters, I’m always thinking about creating dynamic rhythms and imagery at the same time as I’m cultivating voice and developing character. My favourite part of the writing process is obsessing over sentences, and playing with how changing a word here, taking out a syllable there, inserting a comma, or clipping off a sentence at an unexpected point can be so integral to shaping the story as a whole.
HL: Can you share with us whose work comes to mind when you think about writing that most excites or inspires you? Whose work do you have no hesitation about recommending as a read?
CC: Lorrie Moore comes to mind first as one of the writers who holds a precious place in my heart, and whose work I return to again and again without ever getting bored. Everything she has written is absolutely stunning and magical.