The editorial team here at WLM has become somewhat obsessed with the lingo and snappy turns of dialogue in "The Octopus Grill." Reciting sections of Rhys Hamilton Livingstone's story likely got us all through a late-night cram of publication preparations for our fall issue, in fact. We know you'll enjoy the story, and think you'll also enjoy reading our interview with Rhys below. Cool beans, Milwaukee.
What compels you to write or create, even when it's hard?
Oh god, I wish I had a clever answer to this one but it genuinely feels halfway towards addiction. I’ve tried to quit and focus exclusively on progressing in my real, mortgage-paying job as a towboater. I can’t. It all squirms in my head until it gets out. Itches under the fingernails. When I give up and resume writing and painting, it feels like This Is What I Was Born To Do—but I live in the real world. None of us are special. No one deserves an audience. It would be something of a relief to stop creating. But I can’t. Genuinely, truly can’t. Around and around it goes.
What other creative endeavors do you pursue?
It’s easier to say what I don’t. People keep badgering me about doing voice acting or a podcast or something and I reject the suggestion adamantly. There are millions of interesting novice voices out there. I don’t need another time sink of a Herculean undertaking that doesn’t so much as pay for half of a single lousy rotten bill.
What's your first memory of realizing you were good-weird (not one where you felt ostracized or bullied, but one that gave you a positive feeling instead)?
As a grown adult in his proper career path, I randomly came across an old note with a login for a photobucket account I had in high school. I plugged in out of curiosity. It was all art and animations, an overfull cornucopia of the stuff. Didn’t remember any of it, totally wild and a really eclectic portfolio. In a lot of ways it was more impressive than any of my adult art portfolios. Almost none of this was shared with anyone else, I guarantee. There was an old photo of me in there and I just kind of looked at this kid in the Atomic Rooster shirt in 2004 and thought, “Good—good decision. Keep it to yourself,” because who at that time could have possibly understood what the hell he was going on about?
Does where you were born affect your writing?
Not nearly as much as the tiny Pacific Northwest town where I spent my core childhood and young adult years. I love the wet weather, but it mutates peoples’ minds like the fucking Innsmouth taint. When I first went back there for community college, I stood in line at McKay’s market behind a sweet old woman who struck up a conversation. It was very normal, right up to the point where she casually segued from talking about the local library to “and it’s a shame because I’ve had to nail my windows shut, because my neighbor down the street started sending demons to get me.” I just nodded and kept up my end of the conversation, which swerved back into happy reality. It’s likely she had schizophrenia or some such issue, but I bring it up because it didn’t surprise me. Barely even noteworthy as a chat. Typical Oregonian and Washingtonian talk, you know—“Gotta barricade the windows to keep that prick Mike’s devils out before they eat my eyes, anyway how’s the kids?” There are plenty other anecdotes but I don’t want to eat up wordspace. That strange unsettling social vibe up there left fossils throughout every sedimentary layer of my writing.
What is your favorite word?
Probably “bastard.” Definitely “bastard,” actually.
What is your favorite banned book?
The Chocolate War! All of Robbie-Boys’ books felt transgressive, like you’re getting away with something by reading them. The Chocolate War had that same dangerous appeal while still feeling like a young adult book. I remember finding After The First Death a deeply unpleasant experience and wondering if I was the intended audience at all. A bit intense. Probably tame by modern standards, though. Still not as successful speaking to youthful frustrations as The Chocolate War. I think that’s the biggest reason it frightens book-banners uniquely, that it speaks to young readers while eviscerating real-world hyperconservative adult hypocrisy. You don’t see those people quite as concerned about Green Futures Of Tycho or The Hunger Games.
What will your biography be titled?
“Probably A Bad Idea.”
Name a book that made you cry (or feel like crying).
Sounder—I read it when I was eight years old and I wasn’t ready.
What's saved your life?
Long time ago. A construction worker in Brownsville jumped into a running excavator, and dropped the bucket just in time to stop me from getting crushed to death between a landing barge and a water barge. He caught the lip of the loaded water barge just in time, right as I got pinned. Seconds away from literally spitting up my guts like a human toothpaste tube. About six months of pain. A lot of things went on during that contract which were pretty sketchy. Very happy to now work for a company with respect for Stop Work Authority.
Do you have any superstitions?
Working as a mariner makes you superstitious, and you wouldn’t believe how shit goes down out there but, no. I resist the compulsion toward magical thinking because nine out of ten respondents agree that Pandora’s Box was bad news.
Do you collect anything?
Art, records, books, foreign and old coins—I’m an outlandishly interesting degenerate trapped in the body of someone’s boring uncle.
What's a movie you return to again and again?
Murnau’s Faust. Still obsessed with it. Made my own soundtrack to it a couple different times, starting when Grooveshark was a thing. Just has a quality to it.
Have you ever gone on a literary pilgrimage—to see an author's birthplace or setting of a favorite novel, etc.?
Yes! Steinbeck’s house, in Monterey. It was when I was working at two different hot dog joints while going to college. Had been up for about seventy-two hours, deliriously tired, finished everything I needed ahead of a day off but couldn’t sleep. Completely popped on coffee and caffeine pills. Just decided to fuck off on a six-hour drive to see John Steinbeck’s house. No real reason. Don’t really even remember it, but know I had a great time. Came back after dark and slept like a corpse. Always wanted to drive the whole Big Sur too, after HST’s time there. That’s expanded into a grand plan for a two week road trip all up damn near the whole West Coast when Bria’s a little older. Can’t wait.
What's your process for naming characters?
1. Have I used this one before?
2. Maybe?
3. Fuck it
Do you have a favorite book on writing or creating that's been a helpful resource?
Siqueiros’ How To Paint The Mural got a translation from Azul Editions way back when. It’s amazing; unfortunately I can wish everyone good fucking luck on finding a copy.
What is your ideal writing environment (busy coffee shop, silent home office, the train, dark pub, etc.)?
I don’t know, I’ve never had the privilege to find out. Most of my writing these days happens on the phone. It’s all during downtime on the tugboat, standing over a stove and various pans of simmering food, or with a toddler letting me know indirectly that she’s no longer interested in her toys or Bluey or Sesame Street and she would like very much to see what Daddy’s doing on the phone please yes thank you. I will say—when I’ve got too much of a workload, and meander back downstairs to brew coffee for an all-nighter of writing and painting after Bria and Stephanie are in bed? I miss their presence, I don’t like the quiet anymore.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Once, in ancient times, I was well-versed in AP style. I really missed the boat on being a journalist. Unfortunately even by the time I graduated high school in 2006, it was clear how that career path was gonna go.
What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?
Today, Bria crawled into my lap to watch Bear In The Big Blue House while I sat on the floor, back to the couch, chewing a pen and writing a grocery list. Stephanie laid on the couch properly. Lazy and comfortable with five whole days left before I went back to work. Then I found out that Wells Fargo processed three weeks worth of transactions at one time and the number in my bank account was sure as shit not what was shown when I went to bed last night. So I guess today would have been a perfect day if I wasn’t dumb enough to still be banking with greasy no-account porkbarrel sawdust floor low rent Mississippi-grade barbecue-shack-ass putting-on-airs Wells Fargo.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Rhys had to report back to the tugboat three days early due to Tropical Storm Francine.
Who's your favorite weirdo?
You bastards, what an ask. Uh. Just one favorite. Right. Not the weirdest, but if we’re talking about the one I come back to again and again, it’s Hunter S. Thompson. Yeah, yeah. I know. I avoided the guy for the longest time just because of his image, then stumbled on his essays. Great stuff. Excellent researcher and reporter with no discipline whatsoever. Hyperperceptive. Gripping stylist. Very much an American original, much more so than most of the tiresome Great Modern Men Of Letters. This man, totally in the throes of his addiction, got assigned to report on Watergate and dug up more data on presidential impeachment than the actual Watergate Commission itself. The vibrating energy in his body was singular. I don’t sanctify him; he was abusive, he took advantage of a lot of people, if he hadn’t been a white man someone would have shot his ass dead before he got anywhere—I get it. But he mesmerizes not because of his persona, but his mind. One wonders what he could have accomplished and been without debilitating physical pain and the chemical monster turning his soul to flesh and chewing it. Yet it’s a moot point, because he could not handle this freakish place while sober.
What’s your biggest fear (body-horror edition)?
I would rather rent a room in the secret Cronenberg level of hell itself than lose myself to dementia or Alzheimers, but the writing may be scrawled unheeded across the wall on that account.
Unpopular opinion, go:
YOU BASTARDS. Okay, so, George R. R. Martin does not write “fantasy for people who don’t read fantasy.” He writes historical fiction for people who don’t read historical fiction, with generic fantasy stuff like dragons and zombies jammed in. Plodding through the first couple Ice And Fire books just made me want to reread The Sunne In Splendour and The Name Of The Rose instead. I didn’t. I reread The Black Arrow, but still.
Advice on creating that you’ve learned by trial and error?
No amount of how-tos or self-helps or guidebooks or videos or lectures or self-improvement or anything can help your creative output more than community. Try to find your community. If you can’t, you have my full understanding because I’m right there in the void with you. I miss talking to a group of artists and writers, and feel like a ghost haunting a mausoleum that he built himself whenever I write. You find some breakthroughs working silently by yourself, but it’s much slower than if you can associate and workshop with colleagues and support them in their efforts as well. If anyone’s running a private forum for writers and/or artists like the old days, for the love of god please let us know. And not Discord or Reddit, for Pete’s sake. I’m an obnoxious bore but am very capable of shutting the fuck up and contributing productively, I promise.
Read the Fall 2024 issue here!
Rhys Hamilton Livingstone is an inland sailor, tankerman, trained artist, longtime writer, and happy new father. As a mariner he started as harbor trash, turned canal rat, then rivermanned his way through the Illinois, Mississippi, and Ohio runs before coming back to run red flags through Texas and Louisiana. His art background is largely in album art, gallery shows, limited small press work and zines. He helps run outerfreakwave.com, and his painted and sculptural work has been featured in coastal group shows through Oregon, Southern California, and Texas.
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