In “The War of the Words,” aliens indeed make a visit to earth. As the humans attempt to communicate and fail miserably, the protagonist, Marshall Dodd is “…perplexed.  He'd trained for this for years, always with the assumption that when the encounter occurred, his life would be fulfilled, his need for awe finally met.  Love had not transported him; he'd married, yes, and been happier than most.  And there were the children.  But he'd found no transcendence in family life, and church seemed more a social occasion than a ritual of wonder.  He'd volunteered and trained for precisely this role because of some lifelong longing for alterity, and he'd trained with optimism, he now realized, the optimism which seemed naive that any lifeform that made it this far, made it to planet Earth would pitch him headlong, launch him into a trajectory of universal possibility.” As a fiction writer, specifically in the genre of short fiction, what do you feel is the value of inserting a realization like Dodd's into a story and how can the disappointing feelings and admitted failures of a character engage readers and satisfy them?

Since all humans fail and suffer disappointments, I suppose the answer is empathy.  We identify with the characters in stories.  I think that longing is fundamental to what it means to be human, for something else, something more.  At heart, sadly, it may be thanatopic.

Many of your stories have their nucleus where opposites collide and react—for example, in “The Ten Joyful Mysteries of the One True Faith” where the Catholic children are clearly seen as “convertible” by the persistent protestant, Genella; in “Desire,” which involves a man who once desired his high school teacher and meets her again years later, learning that she has changed in ways he never imagined; and in this story, “The War of the Words,” where aliens and humans meet and communication does not turn out the way any character expects. How important is this type of conflict to your entire body of fictional work? Do you feel the same is true for your nonfiction?

Stories have to be surprising, and conflicts enrich that.  No, I think that essays work differently, but people are complex, so personal essays, too, embed conflicts.  I think movement in essays and stories requires polarizations to negotiate to conclusions.  The structures are rather Hegelian:thesis-antithesis:synthesis.  If stories and essays involve progession, and I think they do, these tensions are essential.  I notice that  working through these poles underlies the work of Ann Tyler for example, and the Brontes.

In your essay, “Writing and Telepathy,” you write that you “…suspect that the best stories evolve when intelligence and intuition are holding hands, working together.” You also explain in the essay that forced writing is never equal to that which evolves out of intuition. How does time play a role in your writing process?  Is it sometimes difficult to have the kind of patience required to wait for intelligence and intuition to partner up?  What are your strategies for achieving that balance?

Whew-- that's tough one.  I think that writing by its nature is intellectual and intuitive.  I suppose it's about being receptive, doing research, and focusing on the logic of sentence syntax.  I am not certain that time plays a role except that I suspect that we are writing and revising all the time. That AHA moment is a little deceptive.  We are working out stories and essays intuitively, artistically, intellectually in our minds long before we sit down at the keyboard.

Who are some of your favorite contemporary writers and how have their works inspired you?

Certainly Steven Millhauser and Amy Hempel make my  top ten list.  Andrea Barrett too.  I don't know that they have inspired me.  But Barrett and Hempel represent to me the two strains of American Literature -- Hawthorne, Melville; Hemingway, Fitzgerald.  The spare against the Baroque.  Millhauser seems completely anomalous to me.  We share some topical interests.  He seems in contemporary letters sui generis.