Alex Schulman is an award-winning Swedish journalist, writer, and a programme host who works in television & radio. He is one of those names who produces work in various fields, making it difficult to predict what he will do next. Schulman's 2020 fiction book "The Survivors" (Överlevarna) has been translated into 33 languages. In Turkey, it was published by Timaş Publishing in 2022, with two editions translated by Zeynep Tamer. We had an really enjoyable interview with Mr. Schulman on the occasion of the book's release.
Photos: Viktor Fremling
How does a writer deal with disaster?
Sometimes, we need dry humor, a forced smile, and an indifferent stance. These things should actually come from the opposite place, because that's how it should be. We grow older, but memories don't. Our damn memories are like a picnic basket, always ready to jump out like a sandwich and orange juice. But, like other things we remember, they change. They transform. They shift places. They live somewhere unseen until we awaken them.
The Survivors primarily shares the tension between three brothers who come together after their mother's death, leaping forward and backward in time. It lays bare the passing time, decisions, and choices through a universal "togetherness." The author's skill in quickly drawing the reader into the world he creates in just a few pages of such a subjective story is remarkable. The author has a strong command over the universe he has built. The success of the story lies in its narrative, which is composed of small formulas rather than following a standard formula.
When thinking about or reading the story, it is essential not to forget the tension. The book is dominated by a general sense of silence and forgetfulness. However, tiny details within this whole adventure unsettle you; you are left waiting for something. The narrative, where the narrator might be watching the three brothers from behind the bushes, at some point, turns into a mise-en-scène that the reader starts following closely. The downside is that in a story where you are brought so close, your memory, like that of the main characters, becomes part of the unknown. This is where Schulman's mastery of his various roles comes into play. Now, tomorrow will be today, and yesterday will be today. We talked with the author, who divides the narrative into two parallel timelines instead of a linear one, about the possibilities of constructing a story, the motivation of visiting the dead as a writer, and the relationship he has built with the universe he created.
Note for the reader: We would love for you to take notes while reading this interview. Does the content of an artwork have moral responsibility? Can a writer present death in the universe they create, or is the writer beyond moral rules?
Where did the idea of telling the story through a parallel narrative come from? Because, as we know, there isn't a linear flow or plot in the story.
Actually, even before this idea emerged, I believed that telling a story retrospectively adds a lot to it because it brings a sense of mystery. The story starts with three male characters. They are crying, bleeding, and lamenting. And, of course, at that moment, you (the reader) are asking yourself what happened. Then the next chapter takes you back an hour, and the characters are fighting at that time. Yes, you get the answer, but then you start wondering why they are fighting. And in the next chapter, you get the explanation. So, it's a way of adding mystery to the story. In the other timeline, which deals with childhood, I could slow things down a bit. Because I knew that I had this mystery in the present timeline. At this point, I slowed down, simplified, and spent a little more time on the scenes in the childhood section. But I'm obsessed with certain forms or formulas. That's why I think about day and night. I leaned the story backward and focused on how it would be to tell a story for us.
Atwood says that writing is closely related to how we stand in the face of a disaster. She emphasizes the importance of how we handle that disaster within the narrative. From this perspective, what is your formula as a writer? How do you connect with disaster?
That's an interesting question. I’ve never heard it put that way before. But I absolutely agree with what you said. When writing, I need to be inside the disaster. Because if I'm not, it will never be good. I’ve written books that don’t feel particularly comfortable. I knew I needed to be there, I had to be. I always look for the path that leads to the darkness, to the darkest points, and I find it. And this is a very challenging process for a writer. If I don't dare to go there, if you don't dare, you know something won’t be right. I almost need a sense of panic even while writing that I don't want to be at the scene because it frightens me. I have to keep going.
As a reader, I see childhood as a period where the good and the bad coexist. It feels like something changes when we move past this stage. I’m not talking about a simple nostalgia for childhood. What I’m trying to say is that there’s a threshold, and once we cross it, the leaps forward and backward begin. From this perspective, when looking at The Survivors, did knowing the end of the story and telling it in reverse affect your writing process?
The process of storytelling is the biggest question in the novel, and it’s a question I always ask myself. When I think about my own childhood, the questions "What happened?" and "What is the truth?" come to mind. Is it possible for there to be multiple truths, each different from the other? I think about my childhood a lot, and I went to so much therapy as a child that I turned into the child of trauma (laughs). But things outside of us continue to change constantly. At this point, I can no longer say what is right or wrong. Maybe I could call my siblings and ask them: "This is my version, what’s yours?" And they might tell me completely different stories. That’s why I find the way memories change so interesting. You have an image of something that happened, but can anyone change it? For me, this process is in constant flux. And I think that’s a good thing to write a book about.
Beyond this big picture, I’ve also thought a lot about your journalism career. Unlike fictional storytelling, journalism relies more on sharp details, levels of interest, and clear specifics. On the other hand, there’s a trauma throughout the entire fictional story, and it’s very likely that this will resonate with the reader and trigger different responses. Do you think it’s possible to read the event—I'm talking about the moment when the children come home—as a character?
Hmm. Maybe it’s good to go here. I went to a type of therapy called EMDR. It’s an exciting therapy method. You move your eyes in sync with the therapist's hand movements. Then, you have to talk about your childhood memories, and you start to go back in time. With this process, you find an idea, and that first idea you uncover is often a major trauma. Then you start digging into it. And if you understand it (the trauma), everything that happens afterward starts to change. So, you have to find it and work through it to move forward. Afterward, you’ll be a happy person (laughs). Quite simple. I went there for a few years. We began going back, further and further back. What we found was a memory from when I was five years old, something I hadn’t known. It was a memory of being in a car with my siblings. We were fighting in the back seat. My dad said that if we kept fighting, he would pull us out of the car. And we kept fighting. Then, I think my dad stopped the car. He got out, opened the door on my side, and pulled me out. It was the middle of winter, and he pushed me out into a field. At that moment, I thought if he leaves me here, I’m going to die. I ran back to the car and got in, but my dad came after me again and pulled me out once more. This time, I hurt my leg or something, and I couldn’t get up. I saw my dad get back in the car. He drove away, leaving me there alone in the middle of winter. What I thought was not just that I would die here, but that it made sense because I was worthless, I was unworthy of love. These thoughts made sense to me as reasons why I should die there. I kept going through this memory over and over again. I entered this space repeatedly. I’m not sure if this memory was helpful to me, but of course, I changed these details in the book, and they took on entirely different forms.
Thank you so much.
Thank you too.
This article was published in Turkish on June 23, 2022, on dadanizm.com.
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