Interview with Zara Dane - Article Example

Interview with Zara Dane Trust me when I say that there are few occasions for meeting a writer. That is, for meeting a writer who is the genuine article. Sure, most people my age have that certain friend-or perhaps a few of them-who call themselves “writers.” A few of them may even have some decent work, but really have not gotten it “out there,” just yet. Blame youth, I suppose, with all of its lures of having a good time. Certainly, the good times will help fuel the writer’s muse, but at the end of the day, the good times tend to swallow up the productive times whole. So, when a friend of mine mentioned that she had knew someone who was a friend of an obscure (but gaining a cult following) horror writer, and that she had met with her to discuss her craft, I was envious. And yet, I found myself in just such a situation recently, being given the singular pleasure of meeting with Zara Dane, American ex-pat thriller/horror author extraordinaire, now living in Manchester. I admit, I have certain prejudices. All week, I have been fantasising about what our meeting will hold. Her reputation as a fiction writer who specialises in the horror genre precedes her. Will we meet within the gates of a cemetery at midnight? Am I to expect similarly odd behavior? Will she be…a friendly person? The last question is answered after a brief conversation with her on the telephone. My suggestion to meet at a local eatery is turned down, and instead I am graciously invited to her home. I’m first met by a small, but beautiful historic two-story in Manchester. Those familiar with Dane’s work are aware of her entrancing way of interweaving beauty, sensuality, innocence and corruption into her tales of murder and mayhem, and her abode certainly gives a very similar impression. Its brick exterior is a warm, but fairly subdued pink, (a tribute to the home she left behind in New Orleans, US) the color of flushed cheeks. Feminine, but not cloyingly so. This unusual color adds to the vanity fair seduction of the house, meanwhile grand trees with shade the walkway. Prim, orderly baskets of red geraniums hang neatly from the ceiling of the front porch. The summer day is blisteringly hot, but the heat is alleviated by a smiling, green-eyed woman welcoming me into her home and ushering me towards the parlour. This is my first time meeting Zara, and I am instantly captivated by her green eyes and mischievous smile. My first impression upon meeting her is that I have met one who is not really from this planet. Social, hospitable, intelligent, all of these things describe her, but there is something…what is it? I leave the outside with its shouting children, scorching asphalt and the smell of heavy, French cooking from nearby restaurants, and enter into a place of coolness, serenity and iced sweet-tea. We settle down on her dark green sofa in preparation for time spent doing a question and answer session, when the ice is very much broken by a loud racket coming from upstairs. Dane excuses herself and takes a moment to shout at her uproarious dog who has been sequestered to one of the upper rooms. A strange mix-the, calm, Victorian surroundings, that one would normally associate with a very buttoned-down, proper personality (and impeccably clean! So much for messy artists) that are the home to this vivacious, creative, almost eccentric, auburn-haired woman who is outfitted entirely in black, right down to her boots. Zara returns, friendly and flustered, and apologises profusely, then offers to refill my tea. I decline, then awkwardly plunge into my first question, considering all of the perversity and horror of your stories…did you have a normal life growing up? Zara laughs. “Oh, my, I guess you could say that. My dad is a lawyer, my mum is a professor. I grew up in a fairly well-to-do neighborhood and attended a horribly competitive private school. I got good grades, was on the swim team and things like that, but I was in a very, very unhealthy situation. I had very caring friends, fortunately, but I found that whole time of my life to be very bewildering and discouraging. As a teenager, there were expectations that my parents had for me that I simply found stifling. I didn’t want to conform to what my family, or my peers thought was ‘acceptable,’ whether it was how I dressed, how I acted, what I ate, read or listened to. I wanted to join Amnesty International and Greenpeace. “I don’t feel that my writing evolved from the difficulties I had growing up, per se. I mean, obviously, with everyone, you’re going to have influences from your upbringing that will colour your perception of the world, however I do not feel that the core of my attitude towards writing or fiction comes from my background. I feel that my creativity and personality is innate. Certainly, my environment shaped that to a degree, (as one’s background always does, and that goes for everybody) but it is not solely responsible for its existence. “I also need to clear something up. Yes, I am a nice, normal person. Even though my writing is filled with tales of the horrible, none of that nonsense carries over into my life. I am the healthiest, right now, that I have ever been in my entire life. That goes for me mentally, physically and emotionally.” We’re feeling a bit more at ease now, so Zara asks if I would like a quick tour of the house. While not enormous, it is comfortable enough for she, her fiancé, their four cats and stray dog, adopted right before Hurricane Katrina hit (shortly after the hurricane, Zara and her ‘family’ vacated the country.) She decides that it’s now time for us to have a bit to eat, so we enter the kitchen. She opens the refrigerator door, and stands for a moment, scrutinising its contents. I take a sly peek (what more can be expected from me? This is as close as I will get to meeting someone famous) and feel surprised by its contents: soya milk, meat substitutes, organic fruit, sultanas and a mysterious covered dish. We sit down to eat, and Zara hands me a generous plateful of something savoury with spices, containing rice, seafood and chicken (ah, so that’s what was in the dish, and all this time I was expecting severed hands). I ask her what the current situation in New Orleans (her hometown) is like, and she rolls her eyes. “I think that this is only a place for someone who truly loves it there. It’s been rough. My relatives there say that there are people who are taking advantage and who are trying to price gouge on things like apartments, because obviously there aren’t as many places to live now. And the crime is still fairly high, (just the other day, someone chucked a huge container of infant formula at my sis, that was a bit startling) but on the bright side it isn’t as bad as it was before the storm. Plus, like I said before, I think that the only people left are the ones who really want to be there. I love New Orleans. I grew up there, I feel that it is truly my home, more so than where I live now, even. “I feel that the spirit there is unique. It is a place of beauty, of decadence, of enjoying life. It’s more similar to Europe than any other American city. Although I only lived there for three years, and I started writing since…since I really don’t remember,” she frowns for a moment,” there is no questioning the influence New Orleans has had upon my craft. Anybody who visits that place is instantly taken aback by the romance of places like the Garden District, the cemeteries, the gorgeous Spanish architecture, but when you really get to know what it’s like here, you see quite a different picture. It’s called ‘The Big Easy,’ because it’s so easy to get by there. But it’s also easy to stay very, very poor, too, and the crime is horrible, as I mentioned before. That’s a very different side of New Orleans. Oh, and another thing that I should mention, although it has nothing to do with my writing, is that I had to really change my pace when I moved there. Up north, [Dane is originally from Detroit] people are busy, busy, busy. We watch the clock. We try to constantly be doing something. Down there, in New Orleans, folks like to take it easy and that was terribly difficult to get used to. I know that there’s this stereotype of creative people, that we simply go with the flow and wait around for inspiration, for our muse to come calling upon us, that we’re irresponsible and only live for the moment. There’s a part of me that is very bohemian, who wants to enjoy life, and that part does make it possible for me to create. At the same time, though, it’s quite impossible to get anything done unless you have some sort of order to your life. You cannot wait around. You must be industrious, you must be responsible, you must take charge and both start AND finish tasks. Otherwise, you’ll get nowhere. I have met plenty of ‘creative’ types who were simply flakes. ‘Oh, I’ve got this screen play I’m working on….’ Oh, do you mean the same one you’ve had in your top drawer for five years? What nonsense, you’re not a writer. You’re someone who works at a clothing store who occasionally writes, and most likely, you will never be a writer until you get off of your lazy butt and actually try to accomplish something…something, dare I say, that requires you to meet a deadline.” This last conversation has gotten Zara into a huff. Her eyes have brightened a bit and her cheeks are flushed. Clearly, she has some very strong opinions when it comes to other “creative types.” We continue the tour of her home, and I am led through the corridor towards the room that serves as both a place for her fiancé to store his musical gear, as well as a place for him to work on his artwork and photography. Amid pictures of dancing skeletons, pierced noses and smiling women, I’m starting to see even more the juxtaposition of beauty and horror that seems present within Zara’s home, her writing and now, her fiance’s artwork. We continue towards the backyard, where we see even more of the order and eye for detail present within Zara’ character. Within the incredibly rich, lush greenery that is almost impossibly alive with vegetation and insects, Zara has carved out a bit of a place for herself. Neat rows of velvety, purple petunias border the perimeter of the fenced yard, while in a square of dirt grow tomatoes, beans, courgettes and squash. “The first year we were here, I planted lots of flowers,” Zara smiles a bit sheepishly at her confession. “I thought it would be great fun to have a moonlit garden, you know? The sort that has flowers which only bloom at night. Oh,” she giggles and snorts, “and I wanted a bat house, so Cale built one for me,” she gestures towards a small, almost skep-like structure built of wood. “But I’d also like to be able to enjoy beautiful growing things in the daytime, so we’ve also planted roses, morning glory-watch out for those things! Very beautiful, but extremely aggressive! You have to be careful not to let them take over your whole yard, and then move into your neighbor’s yard! And…what else? Oh yes, some Russian irises,” she points towards a group of white flowers near an aging, charmingly antique stone bird fountain. “And some sunflowers.” I glance towards the corner of her yard that meets the back of her neighbor’s yard to see a cluster of proud, cheerful blooms atop hearty stalks. This whole episode has left me a bit taken aback. Certainly, a horror fiction writer who selects black almost exclusively for her wardrobe, parties with her wild, bohemian friends and used to live in New Orleans, the most daring city in the United States…certainly this person does not enjoy a task so mundane and suburban as maintaining her yard? Certainly, one with such an occupation as making sure that we check beneath our beds at night for monsters cannot possibly be pictured using a lawnmower to ensure that her yard maintains its well-groomed appearance? And yet, this is precisely the case, and part of what makes Zara so interesting, engaging and fresh. She seems to have the best of both worlds, as far as her personality goes. The wild, spirited, adventurous soul of a true bohemian, ready to laugh at the blackest humor and with absolutely no use for impressing others and quite content to be true to her craft, and yet possessing an almost salt-of-the-earth quality that makes you feel as though she is someone to whom you could turn for advice; someone you could trust to feed your cats whilst you were on holiday and who will always be on time for appointments. She has a spirit of fun, of wanting to discover the world, to really dig into it and get her hands dirty, but she maintains a genuine quality of…dare I say it? Sanity! We make our way back into the house from the sweltering heat of outside, grateful to whomever invented the modern air conditioner. Although the sun is beginning to set, the high temperature shows no sign of letting up, and neither does Zara. “I’m a night person. Ask me to be awake before nine am, and I’ll just laugh at you. The only time you’ll see me awake around five, six, seven in the morning is when I just haven’t gone to bed the night before,” she says, rolling her eyes. “That’s usually what I have to do if I need to be somewhere early in the morning. But I still get more done than most people who wake up at that time. I used to stay awake for twenty-four or thirty-six hours at a time, then I’d crash for twelve and wonder why I was sleeping so much. I finally realized that I needed to be a bit more moderate. I still work very hard. Right now I’m finishing up my master’s, working on my next novel (I write every day, sometimes as much as twenty pages, but never less than ten. I simply have too many ideas. They swirl around my head and must have an outlet, otherwise I would completely lose my mind. ) plus, Cale and I are planning our wedding.” She smiles at this last part, and I glance over at the photos on the mantel. Several of them are of Zara and Cale, a handsome man in his early thirties, together spending time at their various haunts throughout the city: Zara and Cale at a local fetish show, grinning for the camera, Cale on stage with his band, Zara posing with other neighborhood writers, Zara posing with sunflowers from her garden, Cale and Zara with their pets. Zara sees that the photos have caught my attention, and smiles again. “I feel that since I’ve met Cale, I have really felt more at home and settled down than I have before at any other time in my life, no matter where we live. I feel much more at peace.” Is there the possibility of expanding to a family later down the road? Zara becomes thoughtful. “I love kids, but I get a bit frustrated with the children of other people, sometimes. I just don’t feel that the values they are being taught are what I agree with, not to mention that kids seem horribly spoiled lately, certainly,” she giggles, “more so than when I was a youngster. In other words, I’d like to have my own, because although by no means do I feel as though I am the perfect human being to raise kids, and that nobody is, really, I also feel that I’d be happy knowing that I’m teaching them what I believe to be the important lessons in life: how to be a responsible, healthy person towards yourself, and your community.” What was that? Zara Dane, giving out her private thoughts on child rearing? Who would have thought such a thing was possible? And yet, after meeting with her today, I find it difficult to believe that anyone would think twice about entrusting their children to her care, unless one has a strict aversion to educational programming, wholesome food and a safe, well-maintained backyard for their little ones. We conclude the day with our goodbyes, and Zara once more gives me her warm, genuine smile, and assures me that she had a wonderful time, and if I’m in the neighborhood, not to hesitate to stop and say hello. I know that she really means it, in spite of my status as lowly nobody. It’s a good feeling, one that I will carry with me for the rest of the remainder of my day. The intended target readership for the above piece should be men and women between the ages of seventeen to twenty-four, engaged in some sort of higher learning. Professional writers who are older than the suggested age group may or may not be interested in this article. “Zara Dane” is a fairly accomplished writer whose quality of work is excellent, but she is also very young, in her late twenties. Her writing may or may not appeal to more mature writers, and most likely will not appeal to older people who are simply not interested in fiction at all. This article should appear in a magazine such as Rolling Stone, British Art Journal and Publishing Program. Read More