Matthew Daddona is a writer and editor from New York whose fiction, poetry, and nonfiction have been published in outlets such as The New York Times, Outside, Fast Company, UPROXX, Amtrak’s The National, Guernica, Tin House, Slice Magazine, and Grammy. His debut poetry collection, House of Sound, was published by Trail to Table Press in 2020. Matthew is the recipient of an Academy of American Poets prize for poetry, was a runner-up in The Blue Earth Review’s 2017 flash fiction contest, and was longlisted in River Styx' 2021 flash fiction contest. His debut novel, The Longitude of Grief, will be published by Wandering Aengus Press in 2024. He has received grants and fellowships from Craigardan (Elizabethtown, NY), NES (Skagaströnd, Iceland) and the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for the Arts (Nebraska City, NE). He is currently working on his second novel and a collection of short stories.
1. As an author and acquisitions editor, you have a unique perspective on the publishing industry. How has your experience as an editor influenced your approach to writing your own novel, "The Longitude of Grief"?
I don't know if being an editor influenced my approach to writing. Well, it certainly influenced my approach, but it didn't change my approach. Being a writer and being an editor are two separate entities, and they should be kept as far from one another as possible. One cannot truly write if they're thinking about how they're going to get edited and published, and editors would be wise to let writers create and dream. Editors can be extremely helpful if they allow the dreaming to persist. When it came to writing my novel, I knew I was doing something that the mainstream publishing industry wouldn't like, and that was okay with me. I was dreaming.
2. "The Longitude of Grief" explores themes of complex masculinity, familial entanglement, and inherited grief in a small town setting. What inspired you to delve into these specific themes, and what do you hope readers will take away from your novel?
It comes from my own complicated relationship of growing up in a small town, leaving it, and returning. It involves the excitement of experiencing something I once held sacred as a kid and seeing it from the perspective of an adult. It represents the emotional spectrum of losing something and finding it again, except when you find it again it is not the same shape or color. It may not even be the same thing. I want readers to understand that life--and all its beauties and pitfalls--is a giant mystery that we are lucky to inherit.
3. Your book has been described as a poetic and philosophical coming-of-age novel. Can you tell us more about the writing process behind creating such a lyrical and introspective narrative?
I think it's simple, really. I write the kind of prose that I want to read, which, let's face It, is often meandering and circuitous. Sometimes even--dare I say it?--boring! But I like to get lost in language and in ideas. I look at story-writing and novel-writing as the exploration of a concept or idea, broken down into a billion little spectral pieces. And not every piece has to fit neatly together. I was really inspired by Modernist poets and novelists, and by nonconventional filmmakers like Godard who are able to imbue banality with poetry, and vice versa. I don't know if I succeeded, but I damn well tried.
4. In the first chapter of your book, we see the strained relationship between Henry and his absent father, Benjamin. How did you approach capturing the complexities of this father-son dynamic, and what do you hope readers will understand about the characters through their interactions?
Henry and Benjamin's relationship is one long...ellipsis. In other words, it relies on the notion that what's between them cannot be easily patched together, and that by trying to patch it together one risks moving further away from the equation. It's relationship-math. Or chemistry even. To make this relationship feel strained, I had to be cognizant not to explain too much. I had to let the unknowable float there, like daft smoke. This wasn't easy because I so badly wanted this patchwork to resolve itself, but sometimes there's no such thing as crisp, clear answers.
5. The character of Josef, an elderly man who befriends Henry, introduces new possibilities in life for the young protagonist. Can you discuss the significance of this relationship and the role it plays in Henry's journey of self-discovery?
I was inspired by Stephen King's Apt Pupil, in that I wanted to explore what it meant for a father-like figure (or, really, a grandfather-like figure) to have an outsized and ultimately negative effect on a young boy's development. Funny thing is, while writing Josef, I realized that he isn't as bad for Henry as he is himself, that he's devoured by the same conscience that Henry and the rest of the town is--that to stay within it is a wonderful and terrifying burden.
6. Your writing has been compared to the works of Justin Torres and David Mitchell. How do you feel about these comparisons, and who are some of your literary influences?
That's very nice. Too nice. One is a National Book Award winner and the other a Booker Prize nominee. I struggle to write most days.
7. Alongside writing, you have also published poetry and nonfiction in various outlets. How does your experience in different genres inform your approach to storytelling in "The Longitude of Grief"?
It comes back to that quilting effect of literature. I like genre that is not-genre. Virgina Woolf, Thomas Bernhard, Samuel Beckett, Zadie Smith. It would be repressive to classify any of their works as one genre or another (although we do and will continue to, for marketing reasons). But I'm most interested in work that upends expectations. Oscar Wilde said, "A writer is someone who has taught his mind to misbehave." I put a lot of stock in that.
8. Can you share any insights into your writing process? Do you have any specific rituals or techniques that help you create your unique blend of melancholy beauty and emotional acumen?
I write at least once a day. That could be ten minutes or three hours. But I need to do at least something every day. One of the benefits of being a ghostwriter is that I'm writing every day for work. But writing other people's books is not equivalent to writing my own. So that's where the discipline comes in: write something every day. A poem, two sentences of a story, a chapter, a journal entry about not being able to write. If I have any ritual, it's this: Write something that makes me want to cry.
9. Your debut novel has been highly anticipated. How does it feel to have your work published, and what are your hopes and aspirations for the future of your writing career?
It's very anticlimactic! After working on something for six years, it has this bathetic effect of 'that was then, so what's next?' So I think I'm most excited for what's next. Still, it's exciting to hear people's feedback. One of the best pieces of feedback I got was from my brother, who said, "I forgot that I was reading your book a couple chapters in." That was amazing to hear.
10. Lastly, can you give us a glimpse into your current projects? What can readers expect from your second novel and your collection of short stories?
My recent short stories have been thematically focused on people who are lost, be it physically or in their minds. The language of circumvention mirrors this feeling of lostness. My next novel, which I'm a third of the way through, is a hyper-textual modern critique of reality TV, aging, demigods, and media. It's probably the wackiest thing I've ever written, and it's the most me.
