In Conversation with Charis Odoki

You can read Charis’s short story, “Chandeliers from Abroad”, here.

SYLVIE: Do you have any particular writing habits, and/or routines, and if so what are they?

CHARIS: I try to do a chapter per month if I’m writing a long story, but that is not always successful! It is difficult, I think, if you are a writer, to do that in a sequential manner. Because, you know, things come up and it is difficult. But I’d probably also say– and it’s so basic– but inspiration from the world around, the world we live in, and cultures, and going to different places. I think that’s what inspires my writing; it gets me into the habit.

SL: Yes, and on the subject of inspiration, who would you say your literary influences are? 

CO: I recently read a really good book, called A Gentleman in Moscow, by Amor Towles, and that was really good. I think it was slightly based off of War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy, but I’m not too sure. Anyway, a lot of the moments in that book, I just– I’m someone, as a writer, who just loves capturing– really going into one moment in detail, and having this explosive bit of description and imagery, then bringing it back to normality. So Amor Towles’ A Gentleman in Moscow is really really good. I also love E. M. Forster– 

SL: Me too!

CO: Yeah, A Room With a View, love that. I feel like it kind of has that slipping between the subconscious and the reality of now and the present, and how you express your emotions. And the story that I wrote, “Chandeliers from Abroad”, I was sort of influenced by Woolf as well, Virginia Woolf– 

SL: Lovely (laughs).

CO: and just the way she goes into emotions.

SL: I like that comment about Forster and the subconscious, because I think he is a writer who’s very concerned with what we keep to ourselves, and what we allow ourselves to express. I can definitely see that as an influence on your work. My next question was about whether you have any influences outside of traditional literature. So whether that’s something in visual art, or cinema, music, anything like that that inspires you?

CO: I was very excited to answer this question. So this is going to be a weird one, but actually, R&B music. I love R&B music, especially modern R&B music. I think one of the things I always love about it is how sensual it is, it’s the subtle eroticisim, which sounds really odd– 

SL: It’s not odd!

(both laugh)

CO: But sometimes, the way that they craft the words, singers and artists– like they are poets in their own way– 

SL: Absolutely.

CO: They’re writers of their own craft, and I just wish I could emulate that in the same way, if I’m writing a short story. If you could go to from reading one of my stories to listening to an R&B song, with both capturing the same vibe, that’s what I’d want to do, which sounds weird– 

SL: No, I love that. And I know that you’re also interested in visual art. Does that come into your creative process at all?

CO: As in painting?

SL: Yeah.

CO: Sometimes. So my friends, we’ve always had this interesting conversation about the way that you paint, especially light– I’m really interested in light in my writing. It sounds so odd, but the way that light hits things, and changes things, and the way you see perspectives. And in art that is a huge, huge thing. If you want to master atmosphere, and get form and all those types of things, you need to understand light and how it effects things. So I’d definitely say light.

SL: I’d noticed that in your work. I think one of my later questions is to do with light in your story! So that does come across. My next question was, have you always enjoyed writing short stories, and is there something you prefer about short stories to other forms of writing?

CO: I think what’s nice about the short story is that you can say so much in so little, but it’s that challenge. It’s that you don’t have as long to explore and flesh out something like a novel. You’ve got a very limited word count, and you just have to be very choosy about your words, and really go for the emotions. Earlier I mentioned Virginia Woolf, and she does stuff that’s just so abstract, and it makes you think, but in a good way, and there are so many different, varied emotions. If you were reading something like, say, Dickens, for instance, you know that you’re reading a novel. You read it, the prose makes sense, it has its audience, but with someone like Woolf or E. M. Forster, you’re going a bit deeper, and I think that in short stories you can do that as well.

SL: I was wondering if we could talk a bit about your thought process and writing process behind your short story, “Chandeliers From Abroad”.

CO: Okay, so I am someone who literally just writes from emotion– unless I was doing something like a set novel. But this one– so, I was in first year. I kind of thought that I liked this person who was foreign– well, he was from Europe, and anyway, it got me thinking about how, for me, sometimes from a lack of self esteem, I’ll sort of see people from abroad, and think ‘Wow, you have all this type of culture and food, and you’re so’–  I don’t know– just, I put them on a pedestal. And I think, like sometimes with Ben in the story, it’s kind of… to date someone like that, you almost feel better by extension about yourself.

SL: Yeah, I think that seeing someone you’re with as an extension of yourself, or as something to project insecurities or ideals onto, is a really striking idea, and can take on so much importance in fiction.

CO: Definitely.

SL: So, I’m very excited to ask you about drinking.

(both laugh)

CO: Okay, this could be an interesting one.

SL: Alcohol plays an interesting role in your story, and I find drinking a compelling device in prose fiction, because you can essentially use it as a catalyst for emotional revelation. Characters confess to things they might not usually; sensory experiences can be registered at a different intensity, and at a different pace, and so I wondered why you chose to write this story with the characters talking over drinks– if there was any reason behind that.

CO: As you said, it’s very true, alcohol does bring out a very different side of someone. You get more candid; you say things you wouldn’t have necessarily said in a different environment. I think, for me, as a Christian… when you’re someone who has a faith you’re sort of dictated to. You know, you can do these things, you can’t do that… But what’s so fun as a writer– this is going to sound so bad– but also, you sort of look at those things, and it’s exciting to have those things that can make you go a bit crazy. It’s an exciting thing. And I think for someone who’s not supposed to do those things… in writing, you can sort of push that boundary. I’m not saying I haven’t drunk before!

(both laugh)

CO:... That’s not what I’m saying! But I think that with things like drink and drugs in fiction, you know, things in the world that push you into a different spiritual element, allow you to experiment further than base-level prose. I think that alcohol is a way into character, in the sense of getting that raw emotion which sometimes, and definitely in my life, gets sort of covered up.

SL: I also like the idea of alcohol being linked to escapism; it allows characters to escape. And I feel like escapism in fiction doesn’t necessarily have to be this shallow thing. I think a lot of people, when they hear that term, think that it means fiction existing solely to be pretty, or existing solely for fun. But escapism, and the vices we use for escapism, can tell us a lot about people on a core level.

CO: I’ve always liked the idea that people choose things and pick things based on personality traits and how they are inherently. And the whole idea of Ben liking wine over beer, it’s like: what does that tell us about his character? There’s this ingrained idea to him that women drink wine and men drink beer, and I think that him crossing over that boundary is an interesting way of seeing his character, through just that subtle difference.

SL: That leads on nicely to the next question, actually, because I found the representation of masculinity in this story really engaging. Ben does allude to feeling emasculated in comparison with his friends, because of everything from his hobbies to his choice of drink. I wondered what your thoughts were about including this piece of commentary on masculinity?

CO: He obviously is different from his friends. He’s obviously putting on a certain front because of societal constructs we have. But I also wanted to explore– as someone who always feels different– and I think the whole idea behind Ben is that he feels a lot. And to almost not understand your head and your heart– like with Boni, he’s very blunt, he’s sort of aggressive– he definitely comes across as aggressive. But with Ben, there’s so much emotion, and he’s struggling to reconcile with it. He’s someone who likes art, and all these sorts of things, and sometimes you just want to break free from race or religion or gender, or any of those brackets, and just have your own emotions and reconcile that with the world.

SL: Could you tell me what drew you to the central feature of light in the story? There’s a quote I have here from the story: ‘They would beguile Ben with accents and airs, strutting about in giggles. Even if they were about as charming as the next English girl, those accents and airs would ensure they appeared to Ben as chandeliers in a room full of IKEA lights.’ I love that! I love that comparison between the lights, so I wondered if you could tell me more about your thoughts on light in fiction.

CO: I think that, first and foremost, they’re in a pub, and one of the things I like about pubs is the lighting. You have that kind of– going back to what I was saying about R&B– you have that moody, sensual atmosphere, and light is, you know, something that builds atmosphere. And you know, the chandeliers and IKEA lights– I liked the idea of using a modern reference to create that comparison. And because I’ve always viewed Europe as this romantic place, full of mystery– I think it’s Florence that first had the Renaissance, that’s where the boom was– and then you had Paris in the ‘20s, and it’s sort of like a chandelier. It has that mystery. It has light that’s faded and historical, whereas IKEA lights… They’re very functional. There’s no romantic quality. And I guess that’s how Ben sees himself…

SL: I, too, feel like an IKEA light.

(both laugh)

CO: Yeah, I need to be a chandelier! But then, is he really? Maybe he is a chandelier, but he just needs to see it. But anyway; I digress.

SL: Love yourself and be a chandelier.

(both laugh)

SL: That’s what we’re taking away from this. Something that stood out to me when I first read this story was the idea of characters searching for relationships to make themselves feel whole. I wanted to know what you think they’re actually searching for. Do you think it’s a human connection, or a personal form of self-assertion, or is it deliberately not something you decided on or chose to define?

CO: That’s such a good question. I think it comes down to selfishness as well. I think that all of the characters, apart from Wilfred. Even though you get less of an inner monologue from him, he does get up and go to search for more people, (laughs) more girls. But Boni and Ben, they have more selfish ambitions; Boni wants to be noticed, and have that friendship– and have that masculinity– to keep it within the circle and not have the European women that Ben really likes. But Ben is selfish in the sense that he goes after girls to have that self esteem, and that self-fulfilment. There’s a moment when Ben realises he should focus on his friends, and maybe that’s the important relationship but he’s distracted by everything else; but that doesn’t come to fruition. So at the end, when the wine glass gets left at the end, that’s a sort of reconciliation– not to alcohol– but as the metaphor, with himself, as being, perhaps, feminine. Or culturally interested in things. But not quite having that acceptance of it yet.