New book by Philip KenneyThe Mercy Dialogues |
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Available through Broadway Books, |
Philip Kenney on the Experience of Writing His Novel The Mercy Dialogues
Writing a novel is certainly different than writing haiku, the form Philip Kenney mastered in his last book, Only This Step. As Philip told me about the experience of writing The Mercy Dialogues, I thought of the wisdom in his earlier book on writing, The Writer’s Crucible, Meditations on Emotion, Being and Creativity, in which he laid out what happens to us when we write and even when we are stuck in our writing as he addresses the psychology of vulnerability, an emotion writers face while producing their work. It feels to me that writing about vulnerability and then practicing a tight form that celebrates the moment prepared Philip Kenney to finish this latest novel which he had struggled with years earlier and thought about giving up on.
He has shared the first chapter of the novel below following our interview.
Sheila
Tell us briefly about The Mercy Dialogues and its characters.
Philip
It isn’t easy to speak briefly about a 500-page book and I’ve never been good at elevator speeches¾but here goes.
In essence, this book is about the power of genuine dialogue to transform people’s lives and mend divisions. David Whyte wrote, “No self can survive a real conversation.” I have found this to be true and it resonates throughout my novel. The protagonist in this story is Dr. David Chase, a cardiac surgeon in Portland, Oregon. David Chase is a first-class jerk and a womanizer. His heart is impenetrable except to his daughter, Emily. Emily is a magical child who lends a bit of magical realism to the work. When David witnesses Emily’s murder on the morning of her 18th birthday, his psyche shatters and he descends into a dark underworld. That personal hell will only end when he is able to fulfill Emily’s dying prayer, which asked her father to learn to love. This journey necessitates a visit to the State Penitentiary where David meets Randy Tanner, the man who killed his daughter, and engages in a series of excruciating conversations that ultimately transform both men.
Sheila
Thank you. I think you’ve done a good job of introducing us to the novel.
How did this novel’s story come to you?
Philip
It’s been seven years since I began writing The Mercy Dialogues. In the beginning, I was interested in how the human mind gets separated from the knowing of the heart and becomes dictatorial over the emotional, communicative ways of being human. It seemed obvious that men are all too prone to making this internal disconnect, though it is not exclusively their domain. I began to think of it as a form of solitary confinement. While this reality took root in my imagination, I read the work of Jarvis Jay Masers who is serving a life sentence in San Quentin. Mr. Masters is all too familiar with isolation and is a great resource for understanding the dynamics and dehumanizing effect it has on prisoners. Certain male psyches fit this profile, and the book took off from there in the direction of giving this condition a compassionate portrait and offering a way out of that prison. From there I followed my nose, and to the end, one interesting turn after another came to me and said, “Turn here, go there.” I could write a book about writing this book, but in the end, it remains a beautiful mystery.
Sheila
Were there surprises along the way?
Philip
You know, the big surprise was the writing. Waking up every day to write a novel. Ursula Le Guin said that for her, writing a novel was like taking dictation. I can’t go that far, but for me, there is always this sense of me and not me at the helm. The muse, the creative spirit, the collective unconscious¾call it what you will, there is this enlivening sense of benevolent otherness dwelling within and guiding the work. Even today, holding the finished book in my hand, I am somewhat bewildered. It’s a genuine, “Who done it.” But you know what? I like it that way. And in fact, it takes some of the pressure off a writer and the conscious mind. Dive in, you aren’t alone. I find this very reassuring.
I should also say that it was surprising how difficult dialogue between characters not at all like me came so readily. It’s the beauty and delight of becoming completely immersed in a story and disappearing into the lives of your characters.
Sheila
You say, “Even today, holding the finished book in my hand, I am somewhat bewildered. It’s a genuine, ‘Who done it.’” Do you mean who wrote the book feels like a mystery or that you used the structure of mystery novel writing? I know, perhaps I am too literal, but I wondered.
Philip
Ha, not me, I’m too straightforward to ever write a mystery novel. I sometimes wish I could think like Agatha Christie or my good buddy, John Hohn, but I can’t. I’d give it away in the first five pages. So, the “Who done it” is not only a corny joke but a serious question that like any good mystery, is not at all obvious. Who, or what, makes a piece of art? For me, was it my high school English teacher who taught me how to read? Was it Ken Kesey who dazzled me and took me “Further?” Was it Toni Morrison, Richard Powers, or a host of other outrageous authors who woke me up to a voice saying, “I want to do that.” Or was it all of the above, and something more; something marvelous and ineffable we try to grasp and have named the creative spirit. How does something, in this case a 494-page book, come from nothing? It’s a mystery, a miracle, a who done it even Inspector Clouseau can’t solve. And I love it! Here we go into the mystic. We’ll get into this more with your last question.
Sheila
Do you miss the characters and their ongoing lives now that the novel is done?
Philip
I don’t. Sometimes I think of them with affection and respect, but I can’t say I miss them. Maybe I do miss Emily, David’s daughter. She is such a magical child. I think I’ll write a sequel all about her. She lived such a short time. But I suppose this is just a way of saying I miss my sons and wish I could relive those years when they were young, and everything was silly and new.
Sheila
What can you tell us about beginning a novel and finding the ending?
Philip
Not a whole lot. Who can say what prompts this unusual voyage? How long had the seed been growing? Beginning scared me, and rightfully so. Seven years of writing and rewriting, beginning and ending again and again. Getting up at 4:40 every day to put in a few hours at the keyboard. But you know what? I’ve given up on this novel at least three times. I thought I’d reached the end more than once. Truly, the whole thing is a “Magical Mystery Tour.” And I love that. Until the editing, which I don’t love but have learned to respect enormously. I don’t mean to sound cute, but seriously, the ending found me, and we were both very happy to have found each other. All I really know is I had to write it.
Sheila
How do you think your experience as a therapist brought this novel into the world?
Philip
There’s no doubt that practicing psychotherapy for forty years (and I do mean practicing) influences how I make sense of the world and its people. However, since the writing of my first novel, Radiance, in 2013, my understanding has evolved. Now I see life as a union of psychology, spirituality, and creativity. That dynamic, unified, constantly changing energy has become the guiding principle of my life. The Mercy Dialogues is an expansion of these understandings into a story that puts those capacities to the test. I was constantly tested to stay true to that vision. To bring compassion, understanding, and confidence to all the principal characters. Moreover, each character was brought to his and her personal limit to engage in self-examination and authentic expression even when facing considerable pain. Everything in my life, and particularly doing challenging therapy with good people, has brought me to the place of being able to translate that experience onto the page.
Sheila
What is your belief about its relevance to its readers?
Philip
At a turning point in his development, David Chase is brought to his knees. Not once, but twice in the same morning. The significance of these two scenes is to demonstrate the necessity of hitting bottom with nothing to hang onto but the truth. With that dialogue with oneself and the world, it is possible to move from despair to compassion without shame. This is not the manic redemption we hear so much of, but a grounded, truthful recognition of our transgressions. It is also where mercy enters. Jimmy Hendrix brought us merci, in the form of wind. In this book, it is the relationship made in genuine dialogue that is the breath of mercy. It is mercy that uplifts and transforms all those involved. These are challenging times, and The Mercy Dialogues is a challenging book. But it is a story that uplifts the reader in the end and transforms despair into love.
Sheila
That is an uplifting claim as we watch a lot of hate being released into our world in this moment. I hope readers of your book will feel their way into making the transformation and know that even if the haters can’t make it nor the deeply despairing, growing numbers of those who can perform this alchemy will have a big impact.
Before we end, can you tell us a bit more about mercy, perhaps how having written this book mercy enters your daily life?
Philip
I’ll give it a try, but again, it gets a bit nebulous in the realm of the mystic. As I said earlier in the interview, I now consider spirituality as an integral part of a sacred realm of being that is interrelated with depth psychology and creativity. In my life, mercy is the sun burning away clouds of doubt and judgment allowing me to see myself clearly and respect what I am trying to do. There were many times while writing The Mercy Dialogues, I nearly quit. Many days in those six years, I tossed the manuscript in the drawer and thought, “You should quit this and go back to haiku.”
Mercy was the sweet breeze of inspiration that came unbidden from another realm and brought me to a place of desire. It carried me to my writing desk where I worked every morning with joy. I stopped trying so hard and marveled at the words and sentences showing up on the paper. What was merciful was the release from the burden of self-striving and engagement with the wonder of what would come next. That didn’t happen all the time, but when it did, I recognized it as creative force from a realm of being that is given, not achieved. I call that mercy not in the sense of being saved, but in the delight of being found.
Sheila
Your words about writing when we are in flow being a form of mercy will stay with me. I must quote you here, “I recognized it as creative force from a realm of being that is given, not achieved. I call that mercy not in the sense of being saved, but in the delight of being found.” Wow!
And thank you for this interview. I hope WIR readers are inspired to find your book, The Mercy Dialogues and also to look at what you’ve given us in your earlier books. A good start is to check out an earlier interview with you on writing Only This Step and a radio interview with you on writing The Writer’s Crucible: Meditations of Emotion, Being and Creativity.
Chapter One, an Excerpt from The Mercy Dialogues
In the chill of a late August morning, Dr. David Chase, still wearing his surgical blues, paused on the stairway outside his home and cast a glance toward the west hills of Portland. There, a long, swollen bank of smoke stretching the length of the ridge loomed over the city like a medieval army of dread preparing to storm down the west slope and engulf the city of roses.
Had he turned and looked to the east, he would have seen the sunrise turn an ominous blood orange as though the sky too was ablaze and trying to warn him of the dreadful event in the making. But he did not. He turned his back on the hundreds of miles of fire and smoke racing up the coast of the Pacific from California to Oregon, pillaging groves of redwoods in the Golden State and devouring Sitka spruce that cover the coastal hills of Oregon.
Dr. David Chase turned away from the smoke storm that would soon occupy Portland and bring anxiety and dread to its people. He walked into his house, closed the door, and thought nothing of the devastation to the forests or the suffering soon to envelop his neighbors, their eyes burning and lungs filled with ash. The fire and smoke will not touch him because before noon, his life as he has known it will end on a sidewalk holding the broken body of Emily, his only child. Emily will suffer a gruesome death. She will die in his arms, and the mind of David Chase, held together for years by rigid bands of fear and ambition, will shatter into a thousand pieces of rock while what little there was of his soul will drift away toward the smoke and ash.
It is said only a daughter can open a man’s heart. Only a daughter can locate the hidden chamber that makes men tremble. Emily sensed the truth of her father’s life: that love is the villain. She knew what he could not face, that his heart was barricaded. It opened on occasion, but only for an instant, and it closed fast as a door slammed shut by a draft of wind. Emily’s mother, Claire, was the first to realize that his heart was more than muscle and though hardened, built with blocks of loneliness. But it was the stealth love of Emily that found the cracks in her father’s deadened interior; it was the exuberance and unbounded joy of her being that found its way inside and began undoing his blockade.
Otherwise, only the quickened pulse for the curve of a woman interrupted the mechanics of his life. Most of his hours were spent at an operating table under bright lights, removing one heart and replacing it with another. One heart, taken from the dead, given to the living. Warm hearts that resume the rhythms of living, of day and night, of loving and hating. The beat that starts and stops once in a lifetime.
On occasion, he wondered what he might find if he carved open his own chest. An empty cage? A piece of dried fruit? These wonderings were brief, and Dr. David Chase went about his business of cracking open chests, tunneling through arteries, and chasing women, one after another. In the gaps, he tried but failed to rid his mind of the sight of blood.
Until the end. Until all the light that can be seen left his world and the blood of his daughter’s life spilled over his chest, through the cloth of his shirt, and into his skin, becoming his. Emily left this world as she had entered it, bathed in blood. As she left her mangled body, a whispered prayer for her father passed through her lips—a prayer that would haunt David Chase throughout the darkened days to come.
“Daddy . . . love . . .”