This Kind of Man: Q&A with Identity Theory

A wonderful interview with an Amazing Lit Mag

It’s always a tad challenging to share a feature like this without sounding smug (bad!) or disingenuous (worse!), and most writers strike the faux-humble pose, an obligatory part of the dance. My own theory is that artists across all genres who are the worst at self promotion are usually too busy doing the work, while those whose social media platforms are popping are…well. Anyway, please believe me when I state that it was truly an honor to be contacted by the good folks at Identity Theory (a site filled with amazing content that will immediately make you smarter, happier, and better read), specifically Chuck Augello (check him out here) for reaching out and asking me some outstanding questions: these were challenging, specific, and obliged me to push myself a bit to be equal to the task (any writer understands: if an intelligent and sensitive person responds to your work it’s a small miracle; when that person wants to discuss your work you owe them every ounce of effort to repay that kindness).

Enough. Here is my interview with Chuck, via Identity Theory(did I mention you should check out their site and support their worthy cause?).

Lifting the Rock and Looking Underneath: An Interview with Sean Murphy, Author of This Kind of Man

Masculinity. Now there’s a complicated word. For years it’s been paired with “toxic” as if the words were Siamese twins, but with the emergence of Minnesota governor Tim Walz as the Vice Presidential nominee, the term “positive masculinity” has entered the fray. What, if anything, do these concepts have to do with the real lives of men in 2024?

The stories in Sean Murphy’s latest collection, This Kind of Man, explore how men, often burdened with addiction, fractured relationships, and a troubling proximity to violence, struggle to hang on in a society seemingly hell-bent on leaving them behind. Murphy’s characters are complicated and not always admirable, but the author’s worldview is empathetic and intelligent, always attuned to the tenderness and quiet moments of dignity in their messy lives. Published by Unsolicited Press, This Kind of Man is challenging and compelling fiction.

The author shared his thoughts in a recent interview.

Q: The back cover of This Kind of Man describes the book as having “a particular focus on the causes and effects of toxic masculinity.” What led you to start writing about this theme?

Sean Murphy: For better or worse, I was responding to current events. So much is going on, obviously, in American sociopolitical circles, and many emotions that had always bubbled just below the surface have, since 2016, been in our faces constantly. There’s been no shortage of discussion around the broad theme of toxic masculinity during this time, but our alternately vapid and myopic mainstream media will focus on the sensational. Of course, we explore male rage when there’s a mass shooting, or another famous man is exposed for his abominable behavior. We rightly recoil from these explosions of violence and misogyny, but seldom discuss the root causes: obviously they include sexism and racism, but I’ve heard insufficient attention given contextualizing issues of class, and the systemic dysfunction of late-stage capitalism.

The stories in This Kind of Man locate toxic masculinity through this lens of anger, and rather than lamenting (or worse, preaching from some safe, smug distance) the fact that Donald Trump and his ilk normalize bullying or bigoted behavior, or actively seeking to disempower and disenfranchise large chunks of our population, they lift the rock up and look underneath.

Fiction allows me to do things and go places I can’t (and perhaps shouldn’t) go as an essayist; fiction puts the onus on the writer as much as the reader—the implicit promise being “I wouldn’t try this if I didn’t think I had something meaningful to offer.”

Q: Fatherhood plays a key role in several of the stories. The book begins with “The Letter My Father Never Wrote Me,” a direct address from a father trying to explain himself through the prism of a world that has mostly disappeared. In fiction (and real life, too) fathers and sons struggle to appreciate and understand each other. What drives this?

Sean Murphy: I’m always fascinated by the curious push and pull of generational divides: as we age, it’s humbling, and refreshing, to realize the younger generations will likely regard us the exact way we looked at our parents’ generation—and that it’s always been thus. Progress depends upon the messy work of democracy being revised, in real time, as the country simultaneously gets older and gives way to the youth.

It’s also healthy to identify and resist outdated “old school” rhetoric; it’s not acceptable for any male from a previous generation to say “that’s the way it was” because it’s no longer the way it is (or should be). On the other hand, I believe we make a huge error when we wish to erase or cancel the past without appreciating or at least acknowledging the context of the times. Many of our fathers or grandfathers had their own struggles, were doing their part to advance the culture that preceded them, and had to work through the crises of the time, whether it was a world war or Vietnam or civil rights or watching (and helping!) America become a more inclusive country. Just like we shouldn’t dismiss a work of art because the artist may have been an unfortunate product of their times, we also shouldn’t dismiss a man, outright, because he is struggling to comprehend the huge and rapid changes we’re seeing these last several decades. Trying to understand where someone is coming from does not mean excusing or exonerating attitudes that have no place in our contemporary world, but if we’re capable of grace, we might provide room for a more productive discourse.

Q: One of my favorites in the book is “Instinct,” in which the “fight or flight” instinct has surprising repercussions on the two main characters. Tell us about it.

Sean Murphy: I wanted to experiment a bit with multiple big themes in one brief story: specifically, interrogating “what is love?” and “what is loyalty?” and “what is bravery?” It’s easy to be a friend, or a lover, when everything goes well, but what happens when uncertainty or trauma is introduced into the equation? In keeping with the broader theme of the entire collection, I also wanted to play with clichés regarding masculinity. We deplore violence, but are there exceptions? We wish men could be more sensitive and deliberate…except perhaps when we don’t? I think this story works because it’s quite short, and leaves many questions unanswered.

Q: The story “That’s Why God Made Men” features a female first-person narrator in a story about the effects of violence in football and a family history of leaving things unstated. How did you approach creating a female voice for this story about a father and son?

Sean Murphy: I had the general idea for this story and what I hoped to convey, but I knew I needed to find a way “in” so to speak. I understood that if I tried telling it from one of the male points of view, it wouldn’t work, and a detached / omniscient third person POV couldn’t deliver the emotional urgency. Much of the topical fiction that leaves me cold tends to telegraph its sociopolitical commentary, which is best conveyed through character and dialogue. It occurred to me that having the woman, who in her roles as wife and mother is a literal and figurative mediating figure for these men, was the most subtle and effective solution. This was a gratifying creative experiment, because the crisis of sports-related concussions has certainly gotten some (but probably not enough) press, and this story is more easily—and arguably more effectively—told via nonfiction reportage. To tackle it and use some dramatic irony and misdirection, while also trying to convey the human toll on not only athletes but their loved ones, presented a challenge to cram a documentary’s worth of info into about 12 pages.

Q: Many of your characters struggle with alcohol abuse and addiction. What are the challenges in writing about these issues? Do you see this having an outsized influence on the lives of men?

Sean Murphy: I think the primary challenge, when writing about any familiar and fraught issue, is to avoid cliché at all costs. When it comes to alcohol, which humans throughout recorded history have had a love/hate relationship with, any story that either romanticizes or excoriates it feels cheap, played out, opportunistic. How can we complicate and truly explore this dynamic? Booze unquestionably makes many people miserable; it also provides tremendous pleasure—so it seems necessary to look at the cultural and commercial incentives that make alcohol such an inextricable facet of existence.

Does alcohol have an outsized influence on the lives of men? It’s hard to argue that it does not, but in my humble opinion, this query needs to be assessed on a case-by-case basis—which is what fiction does. I hope my stories show individuals who are struggling (with drink, or drugs, or a host of other behaviors that they struggle to control) and get inside their heads to explore the why behind the what. This is not to excuse poor choices, but rather to consider how our culture literally promotes and celebrates certain toxic behaviors, like drinking to excess or violence (particularly gun violence, most often via movies, TV commercials, etc.). For me, this kind of phenomenon can only be navigated, in fiction, through character: if a reader cares or is interested in the person, they can connect to the situation, and hopefully a combination of curiosity and empathy ensues. To take one example, the story “Still Thirsty” explores the toll addiction takes on families, and how those ripple effects ruin lives, including (if not especially) the loved ones trying desperately to help.

Q: In 2022, the writer Alex Perez, in a controversial interview published by Hobart, said that there was no place in the literary world for “someone writing masculine fiction.” Of course a lot depends on how one defines “masculine fiction.” What are your thoughts on this? Did you feel a need, when writing about “maleness,” to reflect a certain perspective to gain acceptance in the literary community, and ultimately publication?

Sean Murphy: I am familiar with the interview and have many thoughts. As you say, a great deal depends on what we mean by “masculine fiction,” but for the purposes of this query, let’s assume we’re talking about a type of writing more familiar to the first part of the previous century, a world dominated (in politics, in culture, in fiction) by dudes.

Cutting to the chase, I find the whole concept reductive and lazy. The easy go-to is Ernest Hemingway who, even assuming the radically different mores of his time, tended to be tedious and repetitive concerning the clichéd tropes of masculinity: toughness, bravery, heavy drinking, virility, etc. He was very conscious of—and deliberate in cultivating—the image of the tough bastard with the soft heart, the prototypical alpha who brawled in bars, bedded women, and beat all his deadlines. Of course, on one hand we can lampoon this and suggest not only was he creating embarrassingly one-note characters, but he was also perhaps desperately overcompensating for his own fears and inadequacies.

Hemingway proves that art, just like clothing or politics, falls in and out of favor, is always susceptible to trends. There are plenty of reasons younger writers are unmoved by some of Hemingway’s novels, and that’s down to Hemingway writing a certain type of book for a certain type of reader. On the other hand, and in fairness to Papa, how many writers can write about our fears and frailty as sensitively, astutely, and succinctly as he does in “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place”?

I think any male writer whining that we “can’t” write “masculine” fiction is pretty much conceding that he’s unable to effectively connect with contemporary sensibilities. This does not mean writers need to kowtow to current tendencies (indeed, I’d argue any artist with integrity fastidiously avoids trends and whatever the marketplace ostensibly demands). Put another way, if you desperately want to write about tough guys brawling and boozing, understand that it’s entirely your right to do so—just don’t have any illusions.

Q: This Kind of Man is published by Unsolicited Press. Tell us about the book’s journey to publication. What’s been the reaction so far?

Sean Murphy: Like most writers of literary fiction (especially those brave or foolish enough to write short stories!), I understood the chances of attracting a big commercial publisher were…unlikely. As such, I always keep an eye out for contests and independent presses who have open periods where manuscripts are considered. I was fortunate enough to publish many of these pieces in a variety of literary magazines, which I think imbues some credibility, but I also knew the key is finding an editor with whom the work resonates. I am grateful the team at Unsolicited committed to this project, and it’s been a joy to work with them.

The reaction thus far? Well, as anticipated, I’ve yet to receive inquiries about any Netflix development deals, but the responses, via reviews and conversations (and there’s nothing better than the authentic interactions via a live reading) have been positive. I believe any writer puts in the time to create because they want to establish some kind of dialogue; this collection has enabled me to do that, and since my hopes and dreams are realistic, I can’t help but be satisfied.

Q: Who are some current writers whose work seems attuned to the challenges of men? Are there books or stories you’d like to recommend?

Sean Murphy: Probably too many to list, but I’d like to name a few touchstones, because—for different reasons and in different ways—these books either complicate, satirize, or realistically illuminate the peculiar challenges men often face. First, I never tire of recommending Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried: it shows men alternately scared, distressed, confused, and does so with compassion and through an unerring narrative lens (the story “Speaking of Courage” is one of my all-time favorite short stories, one I stand in awe of every time I revisit it).

The Pugilist at Rest by Thom Jones made waves, for all the right reasons, when it arrived near the end of last century. He carved out some unique territory, where extremely tough, violent men are depicted with humor and sorrow. I wrote about him at length here. The funniest book about men, aside from Catch-22, is Money by Martin Amis: he nails how identity is a construct, and the more we aspire to become caricatures, the more ridiculous we are. Finally, the great George Saunders not only writes brilliantly about men and masculinity, but he’s arguably our most humane 21^st century writer. His short fiction is often revelatory, and if I had to submit my choice for best story of the last twenty-five years, I’d nominate “The Red Bow” (from In Persuasion Nation).

Q: You’re the founder of the nonprofit 1455 Lit Arts. Tell us about it, and what are some of the challenges in building a nonprofit?

Sean Murphy: During the last six years, I’ve published three books of poetry, one collection of short fiction, and founded an arts nonprofit. In other words, I’m obviously in this for the money!

I’m fond of telling people that, although it’s been messy and complicated, the internet and digital streaming (just to name two big factors) have helped to radically democratize content, removing gatekeepers and providing opportunities that were literally unimaginable a few decades ago. Movies and books were reviewed in a handful of established, well-funded outlets, and one had to sign a record deal or a book deal or work at a newspaper to reach an audience; now just about anyone can start a blog, report news live on social media, connect with people across the world, for free. Conversely, due to this explosion of content (some of it worthwhile, some of it vital, a lot of it forgettable), it’s never been more challenging to stand out from the crowd. As it relates to the arts, and education, and being an advocate for celebrating story and storytellers, it seems like it's all bad news all the time.

I created 1455 (named after the year Gutenberg’s press began printing books—more about that at 1455litarts.org) in order to shine some light on creative people, and I’ve attempted to build a community, or several micro communities, for enthusiasts who might not otherwise connect. The first challenge is that it’s not free to do this; it involves money, and a great deal of time, effort, and dedication. Unfortunately, I got 1455 up and running right around the time of Covid, so for very understandable reasons, fundraising was—and remains—excruciatingly difficult.

Still, despite the challenges (and they are the same ones artists have faced forever), my mantra is if not us, who? Considering all the industry consolidation, uncertainty in the market (financial, literary, etc.), and the abundance of news and infotainment, it’s incumbent on creatives to be good literary citizens. If we can’t do the least amount to help lift other creatives, who’s going to? (Hint, it’s not the business leaders, tech bros, and most politicians.) I don’t love seeing how self-absorbed and competitive so many fellow writers are, but I’m heartened by the fact that there are always a handful who will step up and use their platform to pay it forward. For anyone who wants to know more, I’ve launched a dual Substack/Podcast called Some Things Considered where I explore all aspects of the creative life.

Q: The book ends, in the Acknowledgements, with a call to action. You write, “Can new connections be established? Can more dialogue be initiated? Can a debate begin? Can our world be saved, one exchange at a time?” How do you see This Kind of Mancontributing to this goal? How might we work toward these goals?

Sean Murphy: What a wonderful question. I certainly hope my book inspires some dialogue, and in some modest way encourages curiosity or empathy. My entire life is built around celebrating and promoting storytelling as a powerful force for action: I taught a class this spring called “Creativity in Culture” and one lecture focused on The Jungle by Upton Sinclair to illustrate how a novel (albeit one very much based on actual events and people) did more than politicians and reporters to inspire meaningful legislation.

Simply put, in an age of fake news and Facebook refusing to remove provable lies in the form of paid advertisements (because it’s not good business), we’re now beyond affirming the importance of effective storytelling. We’re also grappling with how cynical and malicious content is proliferating. This is where stories can save us from ourselves.

Art reveals recurring themes (good, bad, ugly) in human history, and homes in on what makes kings, soldiers, parents, orphans, the working poor, and the wealthiest one percent identical: we all, after a fashion, are seeking meaning in our brief time on this planet.

Stories heal and inspire when they force us to ask questions, understand there are often many answers to any question, and that by seeing ourselves in others (and vice versa), we’re less likely to be intolerant, lazy, or unkind. There is a quiet power in the ways art unites us. Creative storytelling is never a static act. Whether intended to unify or disrupt, the reaction, when it’s received, is an antidote to solitude (sometimes even despair)—and instigates progression, on personal or societal levels. The impact of art can be empowering, and a human being has changed, invariably for the better, having been part of the connection.