How to Make an American Quilt

by Whitney Otto

  DAJ: How did you do the background research? Have you done any quiltmaking yourself and did you enjoy it? Have you ever belonged to a quilting circle?

  WO: Since I knew nothing about quilting, but knew what I wanted to do novelistically, I had to fill in the blanks with research. However, since I was writing a story I did not want to do rigorous, academic type research—I wanted something lighter, more anecdotal—so I went to a store that sold quilts, bought some books with pictures of quilts and a little basic information. None of the books were how-to books.

  I don’t quilt. I don’t even sew. In junior high I ended up taking home ec. not once, but twice. And I still ended up bringing home one of those little pink slips to my parents saying that I was not doing passing grade work, primarily in sewing.

  I mistakenly believed that there was maybe 5000 quilters in this country, that it was some sort of incresingly rare art. Clearly, I had no idea how popular and thriving quilting is. After the book came out, I met my first quilters, went to my first quilt shows and was fairly amazed by the entire culture of quilting.

  The thing that drew me to the subject has a more writerly genesis: prior to writing the short story that became the novel, I had often constructed my stories in a kind of collage form. Why? I don’t know, but that was simply my inclination as a writer. So, I think the idea of something that was a collage form (a quilt), that could be taken apart and reassembled and taken apart and reassembled interested me. The structure of the book reflects the structure of a quilt (it is a word quilt, actually), and quilting was an activity that bound the character’s stories, as well as the characters themselves together, and it worked metaphorically. For me, much of the book is about the contradictory needs for company and solitude. It is also about a group of women—who are not necessarily friends—meeting once a week to make art.

  DAJ: The novel plays with point of view and perspective, sometimes switching between characters, and in several sections, the narrative refers to “you.” How did you decided to construct this point of view?

  WO: As I mentioned, the collage approach was one that was natural to my storytelling, and I found a single point of view too limiting for what I wanted in this book. It seemed, too, more in keeping with a quilt to have multiple points of view. As for the “you”—I was trying for an “instructional” tone, to set the voice apart from the women’s voices in the story.

  DAJ: Even though there’s a good-sized cast of primary characters, would you say this novel really belongs to one character or do you feel its evenly shared?

  WO: I feel it’s evenly shared. Because the opening is in the firstperson voice of Finn Bennett-Dodd, the reader may perhaps feel she is telling this story. But almost immediately the instructional voice takes over, then each character’s consicousness is interspersed. The small end piece moves back to Finn, but this time we see her driving with Anna and asking her questions, so one could then presume that the whole story is told by Anna to Finn. The other thing the ending does is to lead the reader directly back to the beginning; it is not an opened ended story end. It is circular rather than conclusive.

  DAJ: Why did you construct the book about an ensemble cast rather than one primary character?

  WO: Because I wanted that quilt feel, and because, as I said, that is my narrative tendency.

  DAJ: Even though so much of the story is about friendship, the notion of transgression and betrayal comes up frequently in the story, from the elderly sisters smoking pot to the large scale betrayals that these friends and colleagues perpetrate against each other. Are you particularly interested in the notion of betrayal?

  WO: Yes, actually. Maybe this is a good time to say that I’m not sure writers choose the themes or ideas or subjects that they end up putting on the page. That said, for me, notions of friendship, love, trust, and betrayal compel me because it is so hard to be true in this life, because life is complicated and most of us are (often movingly) flawed. An ideal coming into contact with the real. The writer James Baldwin says “I think…that the finest principles may have to be modified, or maybe even pulverized by the demands of life, and that one must find, therefore, one’s own moral center and move through the world hoping that this center will guide one aright.”

  Another way to look at it is that the men in the book are not especially villanous—nor are the women virtuous. For example, Sophia’s husband’s disappearance (after 20 years together) is a response to Sophia’s inflexible manner as well as her belief that men leave. Or, as painful as it is for Glady Jo when her husband sleeps with her sister, Hy, Arthur truly does want Hy, on some level, to be Glady Jo. Even a man like Dean, the selfish artist, is simply frustrated by his lot in life—which most people in a creative field can relate to—yet his wife, Em, is the one who feels the fallout from his infidelities. And so on.

  A fall from grace does not contradict a deeper goodness. It is part of being human, and for my characters, they might misstep, but then they try to find that grace again. At least, that is how I see them.

  DAJ: In an attempt to deal with her feelings, one of your characters uses broken fragments of china to create a sort of mosaic or collage on her walls. Where did you come up with the idea for this?

  WO: Someone suggested to me that this was similar to the works in the 1980s by Julian Schnabel—whom, I am embarrassed to say, I had not heard of at the time I wrote this book. Actually, I think I had read some kind of human interest piece in a magazine about a man who had affixed seashells all over the walls of his house. So when Glady Jo and Arthur’s house was stewn with the wreakage of her wrath, it came to me that the shards of broken objects would look good on the walls—and be weird, as well. Disquieting. It also worked with the central idea of the quilt, that is, coming apart and reassembling. It mirrored the collage aspects of the novel itself as well. It seemed that it was a physical manifestation of salvaging a broken marriage; a way of not leaving it, though it is now existing in another, different form.

  DAJ: Several of these characters—particularly the older women—are forced to confront the difference between their private desires and the cultural norms of their generation. Do you think that this sort of restriction on women’s independence has relaxed? Are women today better able to follow their dreams?

  WO: Yes. I think there have been enormous strides for American women in my lifetime. It is reflected in education (more women with college degrees) and in the work place (in a greater variety of professions, including politics), though there has been a some aspects of a feminist backlash. If anything, going to a woman physician, for example, is not unusual, but the idea of a woman president is still a novelty. And to some extent women still have to work harder, to prove something. The playing field isn’t entirely level yet, but, it is better than it was for my mother’s generation in terms of pursuing one’s dream. It is just that women’s issues—because some of the larger elements have changed—have become more refined, more complex. It still is not over.

  DAJ: There’s a directness to your writing that doesn’t shy away from making clear statements about the experiences of these characters. Does this sort of approach violate the old writing axiom “Show, don’t tell?” Do you think of yourself as an opinionated writer?

  WO: There is no end to my opinions on everything!!! It is a fine line between not trusting the reader (giving into the urge to spell it all out, as it were) and simply offering up the story, allowing it to be understood or interpreted according to the whim of the reader. I do like a good pronouncment now and then—and even if it is what I believe in my non-writing life—I try to keep it within the realm of the story and the character. If a character makes a statement, it might sound like something I say, but it would be a mistake to make that assumption, because it might be what I believe—or it might be what I believe, say, in the guise of the character only. But, you know, it is a misconception that anyone can write if they just have a story; that there is no craft involved at all, that no choices (words, structure, plot, what to ke
ep and what to delete) are being made. Most writers write because they have something to say, not just a story with nothing underneath. Often they say what they want to say through the story; another old axiom, “Fiction is the lie that tells the truth.”

  DAJ: How to Make an American Quilt is very much immersed in the investigation of women’s lives and relationships. Do you think of it as a feminist book?

  WO: To a certain extent, it is a feminist book because it is talking about women’s lives; the men really exist more on the periphery. But then, is a novel that focuses on men with women at the periphery a man’s book? One that does not touch on the universal experiences for men and women? I feel that this book has as much for men as it does for women, and that it too deals with universal themes and ideas. Or, even if something I read could be construed as a man’s book, why shouldn’t I read it anyway? Part of the pleasure of reading is being different people, going different places, looking at the world in a different way. I think most true readers—who really love to read—tend to read all over the place anyway.

  Still, this has always been a hard question for me because I have often said that I would like to be considered an American writer, or just a writer, and not a Woman Writer (though I certainly am that and don’t want to distance myself from it). Men are not called male writers—they are just writers, and I think women who write should be offered the same consideration. If for no other reason than because, in this country anyway, if we label someone a woman writer, it seems to allow people to subtly dismiss her work. To say, it is good for what it is, that is, womens fiction. And I really feel there are only books one loves and books one doesn’t love, not books that are masculine and feminine, and that one (masculine) type covers grand themes, the state of the world, and one’s soul, while the other (feminine) is only concerned with the small disturbances of the domestic sphere. Let me say here, the disturbances of the domestic sphere are not lesser events, nor are they small.

  DAJ: Why did you choose to conclude the novel with the story about Marianna, the young woman of mixed race? Did her story have particular significance to you?

  WO: Marianna’s story was a natural conclusion because she is the youngest in the circle, so chronologically it made sense, and because race and class (economics) are the American story in many ways. America is supposed to be the classless society—though we know it isn’t. And throughout the book there are historical references to race (specifically white and African-American) and the idea that one race cannot be looked at or thought of separately from the other. We are all Americans, we are all in this together. And I don’t mean that in a Pollyanna, melting pot manner; I mean the relationship has, historically, been a fraught and difficult one all around, but we are part of each other absolutely.

  Not focussing on the other groups that are also American and also have an unjust history was a novelistic choice I made. I am a fiction writer, not a historian (though I do have a degree in history); I’m not writing a treatise; so finally, all the things that went into this novel were made with regard to the demands of the story. (Again, the craft of writing: Flaubert wrote something to his mistress Louise Colet that I have always liked. He said, “One must not think feeling is everything. Art is nothing without form.”) I don’t believe this book to be a definitive story of America; it wasn’t meant to be—that is why it is “an American quilt” and not “the American quilt.”

  DAJ: Do you believe it’s true that “the best men cook for you?”

  WO: Well, you know, the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach…

  Reading Group Questions and Topics for Discussion

  1. How To Make An American Quilt moves between a more traditional story-telling format and a more educational series of sections that focus on the making of quilts, and the historical significance around them. What do you think of these sections of the novel? How did they add to your experience of the story?

  2. The novel plays with point of view and perspective, sometimes switching between characters. In several sections, the narrative refers to you. Who does this you refer to? How do you feel about the use of this alternating perspective?

  3. Would you consider the women in the quilting circle to be friends? Do they like each other? What purpose does the quilting circle serve in their lives?

  4. What is the effect of telling these stories through a group of main characters as opposed to focusing on a few characters? Do you like or identify with some of the characters better than others? Which ones? Ms. Otto also offers the reader a variety of stories in this novel rather than one central character. What is the effect of this variety?

  5. In an attempt to deal with her feelings of betrayal, Glady Joe uses broken fragments of china to create a sort of mosaic, or collage, on her walls. What do you make of her impulse to do this? Why does she do this?

  6. Sophia is a very physically powerful and exciting character as a young woman who undergoes a painful transformation. What do you think caused this change to take place in her?

  7. In her interview, Whitney Otto says that she would like to be considered an American writer and not a woman writer. Why does she say this? Do you agree with her? Are there certain authors that you consider specifically women writers?

  8. After the death of Constance’s husband, Em’s husband Dean takes to spending long amounts of time with Constance. They are not physically involved, yet they seem to have a powerful connection. Do you consider their relationship a betrayal of Em? Why or why not?

  9. After Laury enlists, his friend, Will, begins to call Laury’s mother, Corrina, on the phone and they discuss apparently inconsequential things. Why do you think Will does this? Why do they seem to have such a special connection?

  10. Anna and her great-aunt Pauline own a special quilt called The Life Before. Pauline’s employer’s wife covets this quilt. What is it about this quilt that makes it so special?

  11. Constance, by her own admission, has trouble making friends especially with other women. Yet she manages to become good friends with Marianna. What do you think is the reason for their friendship? What draws them together?

  12. At the end of the novel, Finn says, “I’ll tell you what makes me happy about marrying Sam, that is, about marrying in general: I know our marriage has just as good a chance of being wonderful as it does of missing the mark.” Why does she say this? And why would such a thought make her feel happy about marriage?

  CHAPTER ONE

  a story of love on the veranda

  SUZUKI HARUNOBU (1767–1768)

  This is a story of entangled love. The figure on the right is a young man, and the woman whispering in his ear is the go-between or emissary for her mistress, who is as young as the man. The mistress watches from a crack in the screen behind the couple on the veranda. However, it is the way in which the whispering woman wraps her hand around the wrist of the young man (the young man who does not draw away) that suggests she may want him for herself.

  That’s the thing about the youki singe: you can almost always count on running into someone you know. Why just this evening Theo Adagio and Gracie Maruyama literally bumped into Elodie Parker as she was leaving the café.

  They have known Elodie for about three years, but their own friendship goes all the way back to kindergarten. It then flourished for the rest of elementary school, weathered time spent in separate middle schools, became revitalized when they found themselves attending the same high school. They went on to different universities on opposite ends of California, from which they graduated, and discovered they each longed to live in San Francisco. Currently they are happily settled as roommates in a moderately run-down, generously proportioned flat in the avenues.

  So many nights begin this way, with Theo and Gracie walking quickly up Columbus Avenue after another uninspired day at their Financial District office jobs. While it is not their intention to stay at the Youki Singe for dinner, chances are they will end up dining on doughy gyoza and bland onion soup as the evening quietly slips
away unnoticed. The limited menu also offers a truly terrible Welsh rarebit.

  “Why do you even sell it?” Theo once asked the bartender.

  “Because the owner read that it was a favorite of American expatriates in Paris who used to dine at La Coupole in the twenties.”

  “Can it still be considered an expatriate dish if it is served here? I mean, we’re all pretty well patriated here. Unfortunately.” Theo suffers from daydreams of a life in foreign places.

  The bartender cleared away some glasses. “No one ever orders it anyway. Would you?”

  Of course not. No one would. Not with all the aerobic hours required to counter a single serving of the stuff. Such is the romance of Paris.

  It was never the food that brought customers into the Youki Singe Tea Room: it was the alcohol and the permissive atmosphere and the way it did not try to be anything other than what it was. It was the expensive studios that were too small for the social life the Youki Singe offered; it was the absence of family. It was the promise that each evening held. Though tonight they are here to see a German woman named Margot Mueller.

  “YOU KNOW, GRACE, I don’t really need to be here. I barely know Margot. We don’t mean anything to each other,” complains Theo. “She’s really Roy’s friend.”

  Roy and Gracie have known each other since college; Theo is acquainted with him by way of Gracie. Margot is Roy’s latest flame.

  “That is why I appreciate your company,” says Gracie, firmly taking hold of Theo’s elbow as if she might bolt before they arrive at Margot’s table.