In which I am interviewed in "The Bird is the Word" No. 38

 At Rare Bird, we aim to push boundaries, be a platform for exceptional authors from all backgrounds, and carve a streak of independent voices across and against the grain of mainstream literature. The Bird Is the Word Weekly Shorts offer a glimpse into how those very qualities stir within our published contributors.

This week we're joined by Linda Burrows, whose book, Flip City, came out earlier this month. Linda is a graduate of UCLA's Master Class in Novel Writing. Portions of what would become Flip City won awards in the Writers Digest Short Story Competition and as a screenplay in Independent Features West. A short story adaptation was published by Akashic Books. Currently, she's at work on a new novel that follows characters introduced in Flip City.

Flip City is available at rarebirdbooks.com 

or wherever fine books are sold. 

Would you like a soundtrack while you read?

Ask me for the Flip City mixtape o Spotify! 

The Bird Is The Word No. 28

with Linda Burrows
interviewed by Delia Bennett

I’d love to begin talking a little bit about the inspiration behind Flip City. How long have you been living with this idea?  

 

Linda Burrows: I think I’ve been writing about JDR since I began writing fiction as a preteen, I just didn’t know it at the time. I have kept notebooks of handwritten stories about him, which grew more sophisticated as my writing improved over the years. When my two boys were little, I would watch afternoon talk shows such as Oprah Winfrey and Phil Donahue, who often featured the survivors of terrible things telling their stories. One show was about a young kidnapped boy who was returned to his family after many years. His story affected me (I still remember his name to this day, may he rest in peace). Later I read “Buried Dreams” by Tim Cahill, a chilling account of the crimes and victims of John Wayne Gacy and his eventual arrest. And I wondered, what would a kid need to have experienced to survive a madman like Gacy? What would JDR do if faced with that situation?

What’s your favorite work by William Shakespeare and why?

 

LB: Romeo & Juliet, sparked by the 1968 Franco Zeffirelli movie, which made Shakespeare come alive for me and made me eager to read the play—especially the dialogue. I found the rhythm and rhyming stanzas intriguing in telling a story. Since James is a boy who relies on music for his sanity, I wanted his narrative voice to reflect the lyrical rhyming and melodic rhythms of the music he loves.

 

Do you sleep through the night without music?

 

LB: I do.

What is a voice you’d like to hear and read more from?

 

LB: The adolescents of 2024. Especially those that turn 18 this year. 

 

Who is your favorite historical figure of rebellion? And your favorite fictional figure?

 

LB: John Lennon. Fictional, I want to say Holden Caulfield, but considering what happened to John Lennon, it’s a regrettable pairing.

In what ways have you experienced being an outsider in your own life? In what environments have you felt most seen?

 

LB: To my dismay, I was never invited to prom — the one outsider boy who I thought I’d go with ended up asking someone else (still remember his name too), but I think I’ve always been an outsider, which for me growing up, meant an artist, a hippie, the wife of a rock guitarist who left Chicago and headed west, until their feet got wet. 

 

As a relatively shy person, I’m not comfortable being seen—I’d rather be at home writing. But being recognized for what I’ve created makes me feel validated—such as awards received as an art director and graphic designer, and seeing the accomplishments of my amazing sons, and now celebrating the publication of Flip City.

Flip City is your first novel. I’d love to hear more about what that process was like for you. How long did you spend writing it? How many drafts did you work through? Is there anything that surprised you about the writing, editing, and publishing process for your first book?

 

LB: What is now Flip City has gone through many years of rewrites and title changes. I loved writing this book, and it was hard to let go. Every time I read through it, ideas and scenarios would pop into my head—what I started to call ‘What ifs?’-- and I’d explore them, rewrite them, and add them, until the manuscript ballooned to over 140,000 words. The last six rewrites were guided by Rare Bird’s Hallie Johnson, beginning in 2022. But I loved every word! So, much of what was cut may find itself in a novella of its own, tentatively titled “Footsteps on the Moon,” or “Backwords.”

Who is your favorite artist? 

 

LB: Right now, it’s my sister DeanaRB, who’s been posting the beautiful portraits she sketches of people’s faces every day. But as an art student, I loved the Impressionists, and try to visit the collection at the Art Institute of Chicago whenever I’m there. They also have a few Rembrandts which are masterful, how one brush stroke or dab of color pops the entire painting to life. I once made a list of great paintings I wanted to see in person. I’ve checked quite a few off my list; they are like rock stars from art history, you can visit face-to-face. Standing before “The Last Supper” in Milan brought me to tears.

Mental health/mental health facilities play a large role in this novel. This comes at a time where it seems more and more writers, fiction and nonfiction, are focusing their work on anxiety, depression, self-harm, suicidal ideation, and various mental health disorders and how we, as a society, navigate those and provide support for people who are struggling. I’d love to hear a bit about the experience of writing a character who has mental health struggles. Were there conversations you had or research you undertook in order to be able to fill that character and the setting out? 

 

LB: I think all of us struggle with emotional difficulties, and most of us find some way of coping, whatever that presents itself as. As a writer addressing those issues, I mostly see myself as an observer and an absorber and simply a human that has experienced a life full of sad and happy events. Advice given to me from a writing teacher was to hold on to those emotions, they will help make your fiction real. I did lots of research, absolutely, and many conversations with my sister, Dr. Betty Burrows, who is a clinical psychologist.

What do you think is the most overrated quality looked for in literature? And the most underrated? 

 

LB: Overrated is the plot twist. What used to be a clever device, feels like it’s now expected. Also overrated are triggers. I had a fiction teacher at UCLA whose advice was “be kind;” I still have that on a Post-it stuck to my computer. I take that to mean, as a writer you control the emotional journey your reader is on. So don’t break that trust; don’t kill the cat. 

 

Underrated are book bannings, a very ugly trend that I hope ends immediately and goes away forever.

 

Could you talk a little bit about your relationship with music while you were writing this book and the ways in which it influenced the characters and plot of Flip City?

 

LB: The music in 1970 was so fresh and explosive to us, and so distasteful to our parents, that it awoke not only rebellion, but possibilities and freedom of expression in every aspect of life. It felt like the world was ours and we could change it. Which I think we did. It was hard fought, which makes the loss and devaluation of many of those freedoms very sad to see happening today. 
 

Speaking of music, tell me a little bit about the Spotify playlist you created for this book. Were these the songs you were listening to while writing it? Did they inspire certain characters? Is this music that you hope your readers will listen to while reading the book?

 

LB: In the narrative, many times James references certain lyrics from those songs. I realized I needed to include the playlist when my sister, only three years younger than me, didn’t know that “Quick Joey Small” was a real song. The cool thing about the Spotify playlist is that you can listen to the entire album if the listed song moves you; you can wear tie-dye and hip huggers and grow your hair long. Your parents might even kick you out of the house! The playlist was made by Toddrick Spalding, music supervisor extraordinaire. His weekly playlist called “This Week” on Spotify is a treasure trove of “all the new and not so new tunes that caught his ear.” It’s a great place to discover all kinds of cool music. 

 

If your style of writing was a music genre, what would it be? 

 

LB: Psychedelic rock. Or whatever genre includes Bob Dylan.

Now that Flip City is out, what’s next for you? Are these characters you want or plan to continue developing? 

 

LB: Absolutely! I’ve been asked by readers about James’ family, and I have a short story about them that I may post to my writing blog if there’s enough interest in reading it.  (ggburrows.blogspot.com) Besides “Footsteps on the Moon,” mentioned above, I’ve been working on a novel tentatively titled “Razzle Dazzle”, which is Baby Boy’s story, as he and his generation come of age.

FLIP CITY: The inspiration behind the story

“Flip City” is a culmination of my all-time favorite novels. Mark Twain’s “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” with its tale of social injustices, was probably the first to influence my writing of what was to become “Flip City”; JD Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye” reinforced my passion to write it; “A Clockwork Orange” by Anthony Burgess with its dark futuristic narrator was another. I would also include Donna Tartt’s “The Goldfinch” and most recently, “Demon Copperhead” by Barbara Kingsolver, not as influences per se, but perhaps as creative encouragement. 

Like those books, at its core, Flip City is the story of an adolescent coming to terms with the reality of life in a darker world that he neither asked for nor can control. I hope fans of Huck, Holden, Alex, Theo, and Demon in those novels will find Flip City an edgy and compelling read, too.

So that’s the story. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy my book.

[Photo: Salinger Spalding / Painting: judy@judynimtz.com]

Flip City pub date is March 12!

Flip City is here! Armloads of gratitude to publisher Tyson Cornell and the team at Rare Bird Books, for giving Flip City a home. Available now for preorder at rarebirdlit.com, amazon, Barnes & Noble, or wherever fine books are sold.

 

New Representation, perhaps

Waiting to hear from a new agent referred to me by a talented friend and brilliant author.

"The Boy on the Box"

Jamey's world is simple enough—as long as he keeps smiling.
Read "The Boy on the Box" at  http://www.akashicbooks.com/the-boy-on-the-box-by-gg-burrows/

2. Damn Gender

Another broken vow gets swept away

What happens now

I wanted you to see me today

Like I was ten somehow

I wanted to be with you

but they say that’s not allowed.

Time begins inside these thin walls

Another Sunday smothered

“Sunday Smothered” ©1985 D Gender

As recorded by The English Mixx

Hollywood, 1985

He is too tired to bother with the bugs crawling over his face. He tucks himself deeper into his grubby sleeping bag, a familiar flannel cocoon of faded cowboys, cacti and bucking broncos, hugs them tightly to his chest, tugs them over his head, shields himself from the sunrise.

Others scattered on the floor around him begin to awake. They stir in ragged blankets discolored with use and the filth of a hundred hidden floors. They rise like human refuse infused in human smells, shivering night chill from unrested bones, warmed by the first welcome slivers of daylight seeping through cracks in the boarded-up windows. There is the odor of urine, of sulfur and smoke from matches and the first cigarettes of the day, the sounds of their waking, their soft conversation, their gentle laughter. The squat squad.

They gather in a back boiler room, unseen from the Boulevard. Their head count today has grown by one. Excitement reels their faces, adds bounce to their steps and hope to their eyes. He has come back. Word of his return rushes through the condemned tenement. He is among them again, their conquering hero, their hope, their prodigal son. They tend to him like adoring parents. They flick the bugs off his face.

He dreams he is surfing a crowd of 5,000 Parisian punk rockers who carry him offstage at L’Arène de Musique. He dreams they deliver him home.

souvenirs

He has carried the envelope in his pocket for weeks. Nobody bothers opening it now, not him, nor any of the squat squad who clean out his pockets. They joke at the Union Jack matchbooks they find, German condoms, Bazooka Joe comics in Hebrew. And as expected, the numerous sugar packets, azucar, sucre, zucker, zucchero, they laugh. He lets them choose their souvenirs: Extra guitar picks, funny European currency, scribbled foreign phone numbers, empty English candy wrappers, exotic French cigarettes. Until he is left with less than two dollars American. Squinting into the bright Hollywood afternoon, he scratches his dirty hair, stomach growling. Time for some eats, man, he says. Heading toward McDonald’s, dragging the ragged cowboy bedroll. Truman, Loser, and Dinosaur join the squat squad at the corner traffic light. Of course he is happy to see them all. They hi-five each other, quickly hug how good it is to see they have survived another night. Together they cross the Boulevard with camera-necked tourists and the green light.

They chat excitedly. Nobody mentions Europe.

He makes a sour face. They have entered McDonald’s and more of the squat squad surround him, gather at his feet, eyes looking up to him, true believers, though he knows he is no taller, better, wiser. He realizes he is wearing the mask of a hero and wants to rip it away. A mask and foreign costume not of his design into which they have dressed him. Underneath it, beneath his skin, somewhere deep inside, he wonders if he still exits. Moving, living, breathing now in the ill-fitting shell of a distant stranger. Not who he ever was. He shuffles uncomfortably, tries to maintain but nausea fills his chest. He is no longer hungry and wants to leave before he is sick. Around him they think is the best place to be. He knows they would ask for autographs but no one has a pen.

his name

They’ve left him in peace. Only Anne Doll in leather and ripped fishnet stockings sits beside him now against the alley wall. She is honored to be alone with him, to be the one he always comes back to. She holds his arm, slips her hand to his wrist, and further down, into his trench coat pocket where her fingers interlock his. He grabs on tightly. The rough edges of his calloused fingertips scratch the soft flesh of her palm. His chin is tucked into his chest, his unkempt hair hides his face. He might be sleeping. She feels the envelope, a #10 business-sized one, crushed into thirds, the paper gone soft from anxious fingering.

“I have been carrying that around for weeks,” he confesses.

Anne Doll slips it from his hand, his pocket. She hears him sigh with relief.

The logo is printed up the envelope’s left edge, above it, the return address. Corporate, refined, in lines of quiet italic type. Between each line, a thin rule of color. MCA Records. 70 Universal City Plaza. Universal City CA.

He is crying when she opens it and removes the record company check, dated nearly three months before. March 1, 1985. Made payable to his name. Damn Gender. Anne Doll’s smile cannot be contained as she reads the amount, amazed.

$250,000.00

1. James Daniel Ross

His voice like an angel plays games with my head, 

go over the wall, he whispers. 

nobody’s looking or would ever expect a good boy like you to just split 

So I do, in the dark with my heart gearing up, sneak out of the white room in silent white sneakers. Down the sanitized hall, passing open doorways like animal dens, that’s what I’m thinking, all the creatures here caged in their nightmares. 

go jamey go 

To the fire door exit. 

shortest distance between two points

Straight line, here there inside out, across manicured grass and dormant flower beds through thick trimmed hedges hiding the brick wall. Then jumping to grip the concrete ledge so high above and pull myself up, a foot then a knee to the top and fall over. Like a thrill ride almost, my stomach drops out in a floating moment not knowing which way the ground is. Just, it’s too late to turn back.

* * * * *

Ruffling sand out of my hair, my fingers like a comb untangle sleepknots and debris, smoothing it down, hooking it so tidy behind my ears. Like that makes me look all polite and presentable and not like a mental case who’d sleep on a beach, or someone who can’t go home.

But I can’t sleep here either. Heading down the beach instead, wandering south I think along the gray shoreline. Moonlight makes the shadows silver, makes the scattered shafts of driftwood eerie like skeletal limbs jutting out of the sand pointing you out with a finger. So I’m trembling, wanting the warmth of the morning to melt away these midnight chills and wrap me instead in the arms of daylight. My clothes all like dewy and damp from the sleepless beach so I’m walking faster, wishing the sunrise would hurry and finish. Touches of color waking up now to what gets green and what gets blue, the rocky headland, the forested ravine, the cliffs high above me lined with lakefront estates, all exclusive and gated like private kingdoms or country clubs. Or adolescent psychiatric facilities. 

residents only

I’m guessing it’s just been an hour so far, that’s maybe five miles away and the day hardly started. Follow the sidewalk through aging neighborhoods, crack after crack these white canvas Keds like ghost feet light my way. Not stepping on any, not even the natural cracks where the concrete’s buckled from the roots of ancient trees with big sturdy branches they hang tire swings on, well, the dad does. There’s screened porches with wooden steps that need painting and doors that slam in their frames so loud the moms yell from the kitchens not to. They have dogs that dig up the yards and live in the houses with dirt on their paws, even upstairs. And delinquent kids, who you wouldn’t think your kids would hang out with but they do.