"Words So Odd & Ordered: An Interview with Karin Cecile Davidson" about her story collection The Geography of First Kisses

Margo Orlando Littell interviews me about THE GEOGRAPHY OF FIRST KISSES in Newfound’s final Issue. Questions arise about place, especially “the gravitational pull” of the South; about the language, images, details in the stories; about themes of wanderlust, recklessness, transformation; about origins, approaches, and “the element of carelessness.” And then answers appear, incorporating structural ideas of Americana and patchwork quilts, and including bits and bobs like tractor parts, tornado weather, a flying pig, backroads, coastlines, constellations, quail calls, abuse, near abandonment, a bodiless baby, lost bread, direction, misdirections, miracles, a child’s perspective, things to come.

In the Spring 2017 Newfound issue, I interviewed Margo about her debut story collection EACH VAGABOND BY NAME, and so it is sad and perfect and full circle for her to interview me about my debut story collection as well. Gratitude for all those interviews and for this one in return, especially since GEOGRAPHY is just one-week away from publication.

Hypertext Magazine celebrates THE GEOGRAPHY OF FIRST KISSES

Cheers to Hypertext Magazine for celebrating The Geography of First Kisses in their One Question Series and sharing an excerpt from the book’s beginning passages!

Here’s the question!

“Of all the stories in The Geography of First Kisses, the title story throws the reader headlong into location, geography, and the compass points that lead to love, or perhaps the idea of love. In choosing an unnamed teenage girl to narrate this story, what was the objective?”

Follow here to find the answer!

The excerpt is tied to this question as well as the answer. Here are the beginning passages of the title story from first section, Compass Points.

The first was Leon. A small, muscular boy. A midshipman at the academy. He knew about compasses, easterly winds, how to bring the boat about on white-capped seas. I went for his blond hair and his deep voice, both like honeycomb, thick and golden and crowded, the waxen chambers, the echo in my chest.

Summer grew brighter, and I refused to go back home to New Orleans, nearly sixteen, without that first kiss. Sweet sixteen and never been. We never said it aloud. Those of us who stayed in the corners at dances, at our own tables. All girls, all the time, not too shy, but not quite pretty enough.

For the entire excerpt, READ ON.