We were lucky to catch up with A. C. Burch recently and have shared our conversation below.

Hi A. C. , thanks for joining us today. Can you talk to us about a project that’s meant a lot to you?

My most meaningful project to date has been my most recent novel, The Distance Between Us. During the recent political tumult and the COVID-19 epidemic, I struggled to find a way to make a statement that countered the polarization overtaking both the country and my hometown. When I looked around, I saw people having much more in common than not, yet they were at odds over a host of issues, some legitimate, some contrived. It seemed a reminder to those willing to listen was in order: despite these fractious times, we have more in common than not.

The most significant challenge was addressing the tendency for people to close their minds if the message doesn’t adhere to a series of predetermined beliefs. The thought occurred that a viable approach might be to use comedy to engage the reader and get them to relate to the characters. My motto became, “Get them to laugh first and fall in love. They can think later.”

I’m a big Jane Austen fan, and it dawned on me that I could use some of her tropes, such as those in Pride and Prejudice, to engage the reader. I thought of Elizabeth Bennet, who pokes fun at privilege and is courageous, much loved, and inspirational in many ways. What if those traits were applied to the sort of character many readers would dismiss without a hearing?

Turning these tropes on their head became a game and a significant challenge. I worked hard to refine and balance the narrative and was delighted by the response from readers and reviewers. My nonconformist version of Elizabeth Bennet appears to have worked its magic. I’ve heard from readers from all over the globe confirming that we indeed do have more in common than not.

Awesome – so before we get into the rest of our questions, can you briefly introduce yourself to our readers.

I write primarily LGBTQ+ fiction. The most significant influence on my writing is the small town where I live: Provincetown, MA, the fabled arts and alternative-lifestyle mecca at the tip of Cape Cod. I’ve seen a wide array of humanity in this fishing village/artists’ colony during the last 36 years. As a result, my work often focuses on those who live at the margins, the transformative power of the chosen family, and the importance of living one’s truth. My literary vantage point is shaped by the diversity and traditions of a community unlike most others.

My writing career arrived late in life through misadventures and false starts. I wrote a short story in the 4th grade but was so dismayed by my teacher’s indifference that I didn’t try again for 40 years. Instead, my creative interests led me to music school, where I studied classical music and once performed under the baton of the legendary Mistislav Rostropovich. After college, I worked as a freelancer and principal trumpet of a brass quintet for over 20 years while holding a series of “day jobs” that ranged from teaching trumpet to technology/programming to university administration. Eventually, a freak accident ended my musical career. More on that later.

I retired as soon as possible and completed my first novel, The HomePort Journals, in 2015. Kirkus Reviews called this tale of a runaway who finds his chosen family “An often vivid portrait of Provincetown life and May-December friendships.” The short story compilation, A Book of Revelations, followed in 2016 and became a “Book of the Year” nominee from Underground Book Reviews. These tales feature “unlikely heroes” in situations as varied as that of a concertmaster whose conductor falls ill during a concert to the coming-of-age story of a young college student living in a zany apartment building dominated by an eccentric recluse.

My most recent novel, The Distance Between Us, is a sequel to The HomePort Journals and also contains an embedded mystery. Booklife, by Publisher’s Weekly, said of this book, “The mystery charms and surprises, but the novel’s deeper joy is its enticing depiction of a town and its people proudly out of the mainstream—the prose, plot, and dialogue gush and bubble like champagne uncorked.”

Hearing such positive feedback and seeing readers’ positive responses always encourages me. I’d like to think that my work champions humanity’s positive traits, such as our commonalities and fundamental decency. While I still miss the moments of applause after a performance, I find even more satisfaction in learning that my words have had an impact, promoted reconsideration, or imbued a sense of pride. For me, there is no greater joy to be found. I feel blessed to have found my way—albeit circuitously—to a creative outlet that brings me enormous satisfaction.

Can you tell us about a time you’ve had to pivot?

I mentioned a freak accident earlier. A front tooth that had been filed and capped snapped off at the gumline, a disaster for a trumpet player. Despite multiple attempts at reconstruction, I could never replicate my sound or sustain my range. I was demoralized and eventually realized I must find a new creative outlet. The urge to write resurfaced with nagging insistence that felt like a constant drumbeat. Finally, I decided I would study writing at the Harvard Extension School. It was a fraught decision: I remember going to Harvard Square to get my textbooks and being so nervous that I had to retreat across the Charles River before my stomach calmed enough to eat dinner.

The classes were helpful, but perhaps because of my musical training, I struggled with the “lit crit” model, where one’s writing was workshopped no more than twice a semester. Used to rehearsing in groups and driving toward the common goal of performance, the mechanics of my new endeavor eluded me. I was used to musical interpretation. Writing is actual creation: from nothing, one summons ideas, setting, characters, and a beginning, middle, and end. While the “crits” might hone stylistic components and highlight pitfalls, I was stuck at the starting gate. Where does all this creative stuff come from? How and where do you find it in yourself?
Around this time, Norman Mailer published his book on writing, The Spooky Art. He had a home in Provincetown. I’d seen him around, so, still wet behind the ears, I signed up for his seminar, where he spoke about utilizing the subconscious to deliver inspiration and creative solutions. I had no idea what I was getting into, butthe seminar proved to be a significant turning point.

After reading the book and listening to Mailer, I finally had some answers, but I remained overwhelmed by self-doubt. Looking back, that was understandable. My conservatory education offered one college English course and two Art History courses. The rest of the coursework was music theory and 6 to 8 hours of rehearsal and practice. I lacked a proper writing background—or so I thought.

From my current vantage point, I can’t overstate how those entrenched beliefs held me back. My major breakthrough came at a writing workshop with the well-known biographer and Edgar Award winner William J. Mann, who helped me realize that writing is not as rigid a discipline as, say, the interpretation of Bach. I will forever be indebted to Bill for his kindness and support at a time when I felt stymied, lost, and hopeless.

These days, I can’t help but laugh at how oblivious I was. Thanks to a superb elementary school teacher, I was reading Saki at age 12. By the time I graduated high school, I’d read Thoreau, Trollope, Dickens, Salinger, the entire Forsyte Saga, and much more. I never considered any of this as I grappled with my demons. Nor had I considered my various real-life experiences contained powerful portraits of complex individuals and comic moments, say nothing of drama! I saw only what I lacked: years of study and a degree. It took time, but I finally got past these limiting beliefs.

We often hear about learning lessons – but just as important is unlearning lessons. Have you ever had to unlearn a lesson?

As a classically trained musician, I knew how to prepare for a performance. And I knew discipline. One practiced relentlessly until the score became embedded inside, and then you expressed your interpretation in performance. As a brass player, I’d always worked “in concert” with others— orchestral colleagues, accompanists, taking direction from conductors—to perform for a live audience. One worked months for a brief moment when the audience acknowledged one’s creative effort by sharing their pleasure (or displeasure) the moment the piece ended. Pianists might grow comfortable with a solitary path to performance, but I had not. One is alone when one writes, and rarely does a writer interact with their reader. Instead, one’s work is sent out into the world in search of readers like sticks tossed in a stream. (I sincerely believe that books find readers as much, if not more, than readers find books.) Because of this solitude, I was convinced that little to nothing of my former musical life would be of value in my new career.

Over time, I recognized that writing and music had much more in common than I’d ever thought. Where music has tempi, narratives have pace. A well-crafted description utilizes as much timbre and nuance as any symphonic movement. Structure defines music and literature—the arc of both forms brings forth excitement and emotion in the recipient. It took some time for my misguided beliefs to yield to the simple truth: whatever creativity may be, there are many ways to summon it.

In time, I used my musical expertise as my best tool. As I wrote, I listened to specific pieces of music to evoke the descriptions and moods I wanted to see on the page. Then, I realized that if I started a piece of music exactly where I left off during a previous writing session, my subconscious would immediately deliver the same style and resonance on the page as it had the day before. In short, my musical expertise began to shape and inform my writing practice.

I continue to refine that practice. Recently, I decided a pivotal scene in a work in progress needed a total rewrite. The scene lacked the right motivation, and the protagonist’s response could be nothing less than uncontrollable fury, which I had failed to capture correctly. I wracked my brain for a suitable description for weeks, but the words did not come. Instead, a tempestuous passage from Tchaikovsky’s Manfred Symphony haunted my thoughts. Familiar by now with how my subconscious works, I played the symphony repeatedly until the entire scene—and some antecedents I’d never considered—was completely worked out.

I’m awed and humbled that my struggle to “unlearn” a negative belief has offered such robust rewards in my writing and in my life. The lesson I’ve learned in its place is, as the writer Kevin Sessums often says, “Everything connects.”

Contact Info:

• Website: https://acburch.com/
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/acburchauthor/
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ACBurchWritings

Image Credits
Ric Ide & A. C. Burch