Regina Porter
whose debut novel, The Travelers, was published by Hogarth in June.
In her debut novel, The Travelers, a remarkable intergenerational and international saga, Regina Porter explores the lives of two characters— James Samuel Vincent, who escapes his parents’ volatile marriage and modest Irish American background, and Agnes Miller Christie, an African
American woman from Buckner County, Georgia—and their extended, connected families. The book sparkles with brilliant dialogue, and it casts an unflinching gaze at complicated issues of race, history, and love. Regina was born in Savannah, Georgia, and lives in Brooklyn, New York. She has been a Tin House Summer Workshop Scholar and is a recent graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, which awarded her an Iowa Arts Fellowship.
Many writers say their art is in conversation with the art of other writers. Which writers do you think your debut—in its scope, ambition, and subject matter—is talking to, and what is the nature of the conversation?
I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about Edward P. Jones, who breaks the rules of the “well-crafted” story. I believe he has fully engaged the connective tissue of his life. There is some truth pertinent to his experience that allows his characters to walk off the page without his stories feeling incomplete. He has taught me to think about connective tissue. Is a story connected by loss, or music, or history, or family? I’ve also read W. G. Sebald, who is in conversation with history—an ugly history. By the end of writing The Travelers, I realized that history was happening
through my characters—around, above, and below them—and playing out as they fell in and out of love and life. Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God made me want to try writing a love story. Jennifer Egan’s A Visit From the Goon Squad plays with form in a delightfully brazen manner. And Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon has a biblical scale. As a mother I am also in conversation with children’s books and fairy tales.
It’s incredible how you managed to achieve both a grandness of scale and a depth of intimacy in this book. How did you do it?
I engaged with the characters one at a time—and I didn’t have agendas for them. When I went back I saw the connections. One trait the characters shared was reinvention. They were all reinventing themselves in response to their personal experiences. Perhaps the novel feels intimate because the focus was on each character as they revealed themselves. The unsettling part was not always knowing where the narrative would take me. When I became overwhelmed by the scale, I’d stop until the next day. I’d dance, listen to music, and go for long walks. I’d also take naps. Naps let the mind make links, address problems, or relax into the story.
You are also an accomplished playwright. How has that experience and expertise been helpful, or perhaps even challenging, in writing fiction?
On a craft level, I was daunted by writing physical descriptions. Plays rely heavily on dialogue and characterization—which was an advantage, but physical description is important to fiction. Margot Livesey explained that it’s not entirely different from describing a set. She mentioned that one way she learned how to write physical description was working with playwright Beth Henley. Hearing this was a breakthrough for me.
I’m curious to get your perspective as a woman of color working on this project at programs like Iowa and Tin House. And what would you advise and caution about workshops and writing communities?
At Iowa, Margot Livesey was my first workshop teacher. She reads constantly and is open to different forms of fiction, so I felt I had room to experiment. If you don’t take chances in a writing program, where do you take them? As a woman of color, I’d say it’s important to go into a program knowing who you are and trusting your gut. What are your specific goals? What is your process? How would you like a program or workshop to help you develop your voice and the truth of your work?