Michael Rose
Michael Rose was raised on a small family dairy farm in Upstate New York. He retired after serving in executive positions for several global multinational enterprises. He has been a non-executive director for three public companies headquartered in the U.S. The Sorting Room is his debut novel. He lives and writes in San Francisco.
Are there particular films that have influenced your writing?
Schindler’s List. Early on, in the mostly black and white film, the sight of the little girl walking in her red coat sent chills down my spine. It was an undeniable harbinger, deftly planted. As a helpless viewer, I knew that her death was imminent, unstoppable. The single splash of color epitomized the advice for writers to “show, don’t tell.” Whenever I step back from my own words and witness a sea of telling, i.e., self-indulgent writing, I recall the image of the red-coated child. I'll then rewrite in order to “show” and I look deeper to edit out any other of my author’s invasions of the reader’s dream.
The haunting Steven Spielberg film prompted me to travel to see the concentration camps firsthand. In 2019, along with a couple of friends, I visited Auschwitz and Birkenau (aka Auschwitz II). No one spoke as we left the hallowed grounds; there were no words. That trip affected my world view, which of course bleeds into my writing. Since returning to the US, whenever I open my wallet, to pay for a cup of coffee or something else as trivial, I view a single word that I wrote with a bold marker on a halved post-it: BOXCAR.
Is there a genre of music that influences your writing/thinking? Do you listen to music while you write?
I listen to music often and enjoy most genres. Whenever I read or write, I’ll usually sit in relative silence, or I’ll listen to instrumental pieces. I find that, whenever I’m reading, the lyrics from background music worm inside my head and I can’t concentrate on the printed words before me. It’s impossible when I’m trying to find words for my own pages. If I’m listening to music for pleasure, I encounter the opposite effect with respect to lyrics. My brain cancels out the song’s words as I get absorbed in thought, often about a writing project. I might know the chorus, but seldom do I capture all the lyrics unless I really focus, which can be a challenge for such a daydreamer as me. Lately, I’ve been revisiting songs from my youth to listen to the lyrics of the entire piece. I’m the only person I know who doesn’t know the complete lyrics of any song other than Happy Birthday. I’ve become sanguine about my malady and have enjoyed finding new surprises in songs I’ve “heard” over and over for decades. I’ll often get either a smile or a frown when I unmask words to a song that I had bopped along to for years while being ignorant of its fullness and context. I wonder if that’s common among habitual daydreamers. A compensatory factoid I glommed onto recently: daydreaming boosts your creativity. Good news, I take it, for any daydreamer turned writer.
To your question of influence, I’m compelled to praise the late, great John Prine for his influence on my writing. I actually did hear many of his words while the lyrics of other singer-songwriters seemed to be subsumed by the music itself. Maybe it was Prine’s gravelly voice or the subtlety of his musical accompaniments that allowed me to hear his words more than those of other artists I enjoyed. When I first sat to write fiction, the initial scene I composed was directly inspired by the song Chain Of Sorrows on his Bruised Orange album. I’d been an altar boy and walking in the snow was a familiar activity for me. Here’s the excerpt that grabbed me:
My heart's in the ice house come hill or come valley
Like a long ago Sunday when I walked through the alley
On a cold winter's morning to a church house
Just to shovel some snow.
I heard sirens on the train track howl naked gettin' nuder,
An altar boy's been hit by a local commuter
Just from walking with his back turned
To the train that was coming so slow.
What’s your favorite comic strip or graphic novel?
The Far Side by Gary Larson. When Larson stopped publishing the daily cartoon, I felt like an addict who witnessed the arrest and removal of his drug dealer. I couldn’t go cold turkey and reviewing Larson’s prior works (I possessed several of his books) didn’t cut it. I resorted to what I called my methadone treatment by combining two other daily strips into a remedial cocktail: Dilbert by Scott Adams and Non Sequitur by Wiley Miller. Years later, I’ve now detoxed, but I often experience relapse and have frequent cravings for The Far Side. Since recently discovering that Larson has published “new stuff,” I have yet to sample his latest work. I worry that I’ll succumb to the addict’s tinderbox effect, whereby my addiction will return full force and with a vengeance. I don’t know if I can endure another withdrawal if I outlive Larson or his stream of “new stuff.”
Is there a work of art that you love? Why? Have you ever visited it in person?
The Pietà by Michelangelo, who completed the sculpture when he was in his early twenties. I was raised in a very religious Catholic family and attended parochial school from kindergarten through high school. Photos of the famous sculpture were prevalent throughout my youth. In 2011, I finally visited St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City. I went with one prominent goal: to stand before The Pietà. The experience was overwhelming. I didn’t even get close before I started to weep; I couldn’t control it.
What brings you great joy?
There’s nothing like a good book, but I’ll sidestep the obvious while noting the joy I get from reading beautiful passages. For most of my adult life, I ran and lifted weights. Both activities are now difficult for me due to injuries. I enjoyed being strong; a likely holdover from being a farm boy. The clear head and endorphins resulting from long runs along nature trails in the hills of the California coastal range brought me great joy. Nowadays, for physical activity, I walk the hills of San Francisco for about an hour most days for what I call my “urban hikes.” It’s a beautiful city for walking and the top of every hill rewards the hiker with gorgeous views of the bay area. I listen to music or a podcast, either of which enhances my daily escape.
But far and away, my five young grandchildren bring me my greatest joy. I love to see the world through the eyes of “new humans.” When I play with them, I seldom instruct. Rather, I try to stimulate their imaginations, and then go along for the ride. I thrive on encouraging them to be kids—curious kids. They know I’ll jump at the chance to read them books; a shared activity which they love. So, I’m hoping they’ll be among the readers (maybe even the writers) of the future who will keep the art form of the novel alive. I also hope to be around when they’re old enough to read my work. That would bring me great joy—if I get good reviews from them, that is.
