The Lowbrow Sopisticates have 72 years of writing experience between the lot of them. Each one born in a different part of the country, each one bringing their own unique style to the world of writing. Here we have an on-going series of interviews; with the LBS themselves and some of them conducted with the influentially famous, with the LBS asking the questions. So without any further ado, ladies and gentlemen - d.r. monroe of the Lowbrow Sophisticates:

INTERVIEWER
Mr. Sophisticate, you were saying a while ago that you don’t like interviews.

d.r. monroe:
The reason I don’t like interviews is that I seem to react violently to personal questions. You chuckle, but seriously, the mere thought of personal questions sends me into a violent rage. Hence, the drinking. On the other hand, if you were to ask me questions about, lets say, writing in general or my colleagues here at LBS, you would receive an entirely different reaction; one not so rage-filled.

INTERVIEWER
How about yourself as a writer?

d.r. monroe:
What did I just fucking say!? I’ll answer this in this way: Look, Do I have anything new to say? I don’t think so. If it wasn’t me writing about what I write about it would be someone else doing it. Shakespeare, Hemingway, Childs, Grisham have all written about the same thing. So, “myself as a writer” is a moot point.

INTERVIEWER
But even if there seems nothing more to be said, isn’t perhaps the individuality of the writer important?

d.r. monroe:
Now that… that’s a good question. It’s well known that individuality is stupid. Just kidding. If you look at the individuality of a personality versus the individuality of a writing persona, you could be dealing with two fundamentally different entities. I know a couple of HUGE douche bags, they literally have the worst personalities I have ever had the misfortune of coming into contact with, however, they can write like the wind. So, as an individual per se, they blow ass, but as a writer? They blow less ass.

INTERVIEWER
And your contemporaries?

d.r. monroe:
I try not to focus on our contemporaries, and there are a handful of good ones. I think as a writer or a novelist who hasn’t ever sold one of his novels (in my case), I can only focus on myself. I must write for myself, no one else. If I’m wasting my time on what others are doing that’s time not spent on writing.  So I ask myself, “Is it worth poisoning them with homemade pastries?” and the answer is simple, yes.

INTERVIEWER
Is there any possible formula to follow in order to be a good novelist?

d.r. monroe:
Try to be better than yourself. Like I mentioned earlier about our contemporaries, why waste the time. Young Einstein knew that he could never surpass real Einstein, so he worked within a realm he was familiar with. We must do the same. I heard from the t.v. too that there is in fact a mathematical formula that reveals the secret to being a good novelist, but it was $19.99 and I don’t have any money.

INTERVIEWER
Do you mean the writer should be completely ruthless?

d.r. monroe:
He will be if he is a good writer. He has no peace until then. Ruthless, yes. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the “The Left Behind” series is worth any
number of old ladies.

INTERVIEWER
Then what would be the best environment for a writer?

d.r. monroe:
Art is not concerned with environment; it doesn’t care where it is. If you’re asking me personally, then of course I will become very, very angry, so I’ll assume you’re not. So the only environment the artist needs is whatever peace, whatever solitude, and whatever pleasure he can get at not too high a cost. My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whiskey. I also wouldn’t mind a hot tub filled with pink champagne to write in.

INTERVIEWER
Bourbon, you mean?

d.r. monroe:
Sure. I don’t care, as long as its got alcohol. Wet Hens? You bet. I once rang the gin out of a wet sock that was outside to finish a short story.

INTERVIEWER
Does the writer need economic freedom?

d.r. monroe:
No. The writer doesn’t need economic freedom. All he needs is a pencil and some paper. I’ve never known anything good in writing to come from having accepted any free gift of money, unless someone wants to publish my book for free, or even if they need a lot of money from me. Why? Wait… did someone say something to you? Do you want to publish my book?

INTERVIEWER
Can working for the movies hurt your own writing?

d.r. monroe:
No, not at all. If you’re a great writer, the venue you write in means nothing. Nothing. The Lowbrow Sophisticates have actually written 14 movies together.

INTERVIEWER
What technique do you use to arrive at your standard?

d.r. monroe:
As a young writer I can say this, the young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. With that being said, I follow a very strict theory that I of course cannot haphazardly give away here. THAT would be foolish.

INTERVIEWER
Then would you deny the validity of technique?

d.r. monroe:
I can honestly say that I do not deny the validity of anything, technique included.  You make your own technique and that becomes yours, your own. You can’t copy technique, that is, a great Japanese chef cannot teach an apprentice his technique, he can just show him a way, his way, but the young apprentice will adapt his master’s to his own, its the only way. [ed. note: immediately following this seemingly profound statement, Dan farted very loudly].

INTERVIEWER
Can an artist use Christianity simply as a tool, as a carpenter would borrow a hammer?

d.r. monroe:
The carpenter we are speaking of never lacks that hammer. [Ed. Note: I feel compelled to mention that after Dan said this confidently, he looked at his compatriots (assuming I could not see him) and mouthed, "What the fuck is he talking about"]

INTERVIEWER
How much of your writing is based on personal experience?

d.r. monroe:
“How much” is not important. But, all of it, for me, is based on personal experience. That’s not a personal question is it?

INTERVIEWER
Some people say they can’t understand your guys’ writing, even after they read it two or three times. What approach would you suggest for them?

d.r. monroe:
Read it four, five or even eleven times.

INTERVIEWER
You mentioned experience, observation, and imagination as being important for the writer. Would you include inspiration?

d.r. monroe:
I understand inspiration completely, but I don’t think you can separate inspiration from personal experience, so I would have to say that your question is a dumb one.

INTERVIEWER
As a writer you are said to be obsessed with violence.

d.r. monroe:
That’s like saying the jam maker is obsessed with his beets.  Violence is simply one of the jam maker’s tools. The writer can no more build with one tool than the jam maker can. Jam.

INTERVIEWER
Can you say how you started as a writer?

d.r. monroe:
I was living in Lacrosse, Wisconsin, doing whatever kind of work was necessary to earn a little money now and then. I met Abraham Daddy. We would walk about the city in the afternoon and talk to the homeless. In the evenings we would meet again and sit over a bottle or two while I talked and he listened. In the forenoon I would never see him. He was secluded, working. The next day we would repeat. I began to write my first book. At once I found that writing was exhilarating. I even forgot that I hadn’t seen Mr. Daddy for three weeks until he walked in my door, the first time he ever came to see me, and said, “What’s wrong? Are you mad at me?” I told him I was writing a book. He said, “My God,” and walked out. That was the last time I saw him. I later learned that he had been shot by a man who thought he was the Sheriff of Nottingham, it was weird. That’s how I became a writer.

INTERVIEWER
What were the kinds of work you were doing to earn that “little money now and then”?

d.r. monroe:

(Nothing but silence and uncomfortably, he started giggling).

INTERVIEWER
Do you read your contemporaries?

d.r. monroe:
No, absolutely not. I haven’t read a book in over twelve years. Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Shakespeare. I read Melville occasionally and, of the poets, Marlowe, Campion, Jonson, Herrick, Donne, Keats, and Shelley. I still read these guys of course, ‘cause they’re dead.

INTERVIEWER
And Freud?

d.r. monroe:
Freud? Of course, but I have yet to find another individual who has a closer understanding of the psyche as my mother does.

INTERVIEWER
Do you ever read mystery stories?

d.r. monroe:
Of course. A good mystery is like a good toe stubbing. It’s painful, annoying, and when you’re done, you hope you never do it again.

INTERVIEWER
What about your favorite characters?

d.r. monroe:
Zarathustra. Always Zarathustra.

INTERVIEWER
Alright, I appreciate your time and would like to ask one more question: Do you have any final thoughts? I don’t mean that Im going to kill you or anything, (sigh), ugh, is there anything you would like to end this interview on?

d.r. monroe:
The written word is dying. The number of people that read when they don’t absolutely have to is getting smaller by the day. Books, they don’t mean anything, not to anyone, not anymore.

After a rigorous 4 day literary tour in Montana, Adam Bradford Ross was gracious enough to let me ask him a few questions about his style and career. He had me meet him at a strip club before it opened, apparently he has a key. When I arrived he ushered me to a table in the back. He was barefoot and the place smelled of hot wings.

INTERVIEWER
It must be a great advantage for the writer to have a memory as good as yours. I don’t suppose
you have to do much note-taking?

ROSS
Well, a good memory doesn’t make the ideas any better, really. If someone had a skill, like, of always being able to recall their nightmares every night it would be a notable gift in a sense but would you really envy that person? That’s how I see my memory in relation to my writing. I have this inborn gift that everything I see is recorded inside my head for posterity… but I think that posterity will probably opt to flip on the television instead.

INTERVIEWER
Then you don’t spend much time prefiguring your work?

ROSS
Quite the contrary. I spend the vast majority of my time prefiguring my work. Probably, if I were honest with you, I would admit that I spend about 90% of my time prefiguring the work and 10% of my time in the actual writing. If I was really honest with you I’d admit it’s closer to 100%. That and internet gambling are the reason that I’ve only finished one story in my 29 years.

INTERVIEWER
Is the act of writing easy for you?

ROSS
That’s like asking the Dalai Lama if he finds it easy to dunk a basketball. He’d say “yes” but only because he’s never tried it.

INTERVIEWER
Then it’s rare that your work comes out right the first time?

ROSS
It’s rare that my work comes out. Period. So I don’t have to struggle with issues of “quality”.

INTERVIEWER
Does the fact that you’re dealing with humor slow down the production?

ROSS
Yes, absolutely, but only because I’m not funny.

INTERVIEWER
Do you envy those who write at high speed, as against your method of constant revision?

ROSS
Did you listen to my answers to your previous questions?

INTERVIEWER
(Nodding head absently) Yes, I’d have to agree. And what about your drawings, you have said that they often don’t come out the way you intended?

ROSS
Yes, this is true, and it’s a matter of execution not conception. I get an idea for a drawing and I go right to the table to start into it. Within an hour I’ve completely worn out the black [crayon] and am forced to switch to other colors that really aren’t appropriate for the idea at all. So, for instance, once I was drawing a picture for the New Yorker of the grim reaper taking my wife away moments after she asked me to take out the garbage bins. In my anger and inspiration I soon had worn through the entire black crayon and so the reaper’s sickle ended up pink.

INTERVIEWER
But the head of the New Yorker still published it.

ROSS
Yes, but that was incidental. It was breast cancer awareness month so it just made me look benevolent. I was on quite a tear with the ladies for a bit after that one, I might add.

INTERVIEWER
Can the New Yorker be effective in developing you as a writer?

ROSS
Meh.

INTERVIEWER
It’s strange that one of the main ingredients of humor—low comedy—has never been accepted for The New Yorker.

ROSS
Yes, this is true. They are all sophistication but no low brow. Someone should start a website that combines the two.

INTERVIEWER
In the long run did The New Yorker have much direct influence on your own work?

ROSS
Absolutely, they rejected scores of my stories.

INTERVIEWER
Henry James was a strong influence?

ROSS
Yes, no doubt, but I’m not sure to whom.

INTERVIEWER
But there were things to be learned from him?

ROSS
Oh yes, yes, certainly but at the moment I just haven’t the time. NBC’s fall lineup kicks off soon and besides, it’s autumn.

INTERVIEWER
How about Mark Twain? Pretty much everybody believes him to have been the major influence on American humorists.

ROSS
It will surprise you but I haven’t read a word of him yet. I’ll ask my son to read one of his books to me next week.

INTERVIEWER
Could we ask you why you’ve never attempted a long work?

ROSS
I haven’t put much thought into it, but if I have to give an off-the-cuff answer I’d say it’s because my short works are so awful.

INTERVIEWER
Perhaps the fact that you’re writing humor imposes a limit on the length of a work.

ROSS
That and a dearth of talent just about do the trick.

INTERVIEWER
Wasn’t Faulkner’s criterion whether or not the author dared to go out on a limb?

ROSS
Yes.

INTERVIEWER
Though you’ve never done a long serious work you have written stories—“Tomorrow is Wednesday” and “Showing Pink” in particular—in which the mood is far from humorous.

ROSS
(a hint of anger in his voice) You didn’t think those were funny?

INTERVIEWER
Some critics think that much of your work can be traced to the depicting of trivia as a basis for humor. In fact, there’s been some criticism—

ROSS
It’s made to seem as if this is some conscious decision on my part; my theory of comedy so to speak. It’s made to seem like I am trying to start a school of writing. None of this could be further from the truth. My comedy is rooted in trivia because I’m a trivial guy trying to write comedy.

INTERVIEWER
Would you care to define humor in terms of your own work?

ROSS
Humor, probably for me and certainly for my readers, is that which causes laughter and occurs in between the times spent reading my works.

INTERVIEWER
Does it bother you to talk about the stories on which you’re working? It bothers many writers, though it would seem that particularly the humorous story is polished through retelling.

ROSS
Humorous stories can be polished through telling and retelling. If the story is fairly humorous to begin with then perhaps two tellings is sufficient. I haven’t been so lucky. My first idea tends to be rather vague and so many, many retellings are required before some of the humor begins to creep in at last. I once had a the idea for a comedic story where I had to retell it so many times before I hit upon one joke that worked that I got layringitis and couldn’t talk for a week. During which time, it should be added, I forgot the story altogether. This is how I write my stories.

INTERVIEWER
You write them?

ROSS
In a sense though I have such a sense of repulsion for my finished works that I feel like there’s a remove there. Because they don’t end up like I had first pictured them (at all) it feels as though I weren’t really the writer after all. It would be more accurate to say of my stories that I ghost write them.

INTERVIEWER
How about the new crop of writers? Do you note any good humorists coming along with them?

ROSS
Child is quite good.

INTERVIEWER
Has the shift in the mood of the times had any effect on your own work?

ROSS
It hasn’t. I’ve always had a very post-9-11 mindset.

INTERVIEWER
No matter what the “mental climate,” though, you would continue writing?

ROSS
Yes, unless my mental climate was “brain cancer” then I think I would put down the pen… maybe take up singing.

INTERVIEWER
In your case there wouldn’t be much chance of this?

ROSS
Not true, it runs like wildfire through my mother’s side of the family.