Omar El Akkad, "Government Slots"
It’s December 22. Omar El Akkad, author of American War, can’t open that door no matter how hard you knock.
How would you describe your story?
OMAR EL AKKAD: It’s a story about, for lack of a better term, the unknowingness of things. I dreamed up a world in which everyone is afforded a small box, the contents of which, it is believed but not determined for certain, will accompany them to the afterlife. There’s not much of a plot to this story, if I’m being honest. It’s just a fragmentary account of what we’d take with us, the myriad flimsy weapons of which our arsenal would be composed in the war against ending.
When did you write it, and how did the writing process compare to your other work?
OEA: Usually I write in one place, chronologically from start to finish. This story was a little different. I found myself jotting down notes on the backs of tissue boxes, grocery-store receipts, water bills. The nature of the story is such that there’s many places where the narrative is simply a list of things, items to be brought into the afterlife. So I wrote it that way, in little fragments, for the most part unconcerned with narrative or chronological order. There’s something liberating about that kind of writing.
What kind of research went into this story?
OEA: Almost none. Some of my high-school physics knowledge, of which there was very little to begin with and even less remains now, came in handy, as did my experience with the workings of bureaucracy from my years as a journalist. But for the most part, I just went around asking people what they’d take with them to the afterlife if they could. Perhaps not surprisingly, nobody I talked to had an answer ready.
What, to you, makes the short story a special form? What can it do that other kinds of writing can’t?
OEA: I tend to think of the novel as a form of long-distance swimming, the short story as a pool sprint, and poetry as a kind of diving. Nobody remembers the gracefulness of every stroke in a long-distance swim; it’s the span that matters, movement through time and space, perseverance. Diving is the opposite; every turn of every limb is vital, gracefulness and precision matter. The short story exists somewhere in between, and this in my mind makes it an incredibly difficult form, and certainly not one I’ve come close to mastering. In a short story, neither the active nor the negative space can be safely neglected. The reader must be captivated by what happens and what is implied to happen, things known and things intuited. You live in the novel, and poetry lives in you, but the short story is a strange little houseguest. It’s hard to be a good houseguest.
Where should people go to learn more about you and your work?
OEA: I sporadically tweet under the handle @omarelakkad. Though, to be honest, it’s mostly snippets from books I like and outrage at the fascist tides of current American politics. I have a website, but I haven’t updated it in three years, and I think I might have forgotten the password.
What's the best gift you've ever been given?
OEA: Have you ever heard of Dominion? It’s a nerdy little card game I like to play. A few years ago, after my wife and I moved to the Pacific Northwest, my best friend Donny made us a special Portland-themed Dominion card deck. By this I mean that he dreamed up a dozen different cards, made sure they were actually playable, designed the art on each one and then had them professionally printed. I am now the only person on Earth in possession of a Portland Dominion deck. Now that’s a goddamn gift right there.
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