Julie Iromuanya
Mr. and Mrs. Doctor
Julie Iromuanya – with smiling eyes and a happy face on all your pictures. How do you manage having such a positive and uplifting attitude?
My writing is what I bring of myself to the world. My words, my thoughts, my imagination — all of these abstract aspects of my being — will be around after my physical body is gone. Thinking about my work in this way means I can’t be cynical or ambivalent about what I do. My attitude is positive and uplifting in the sense that I reassert to myself (as needed) that my words matter. You were born in Nebraska and now you are teaching in Arizona. Distinct places. What are some of the unique characteristics of each landscape you’ve been part of and how have they affected your writing process? |
With Mr. and Mrs. Doctor I tried to think about the ways that the landscape might in some ways be reflective of the newcomers’ unease with their new land.
For Job and Ifi, America is exhilarating and treacherous, familiar and alienating. I also wanted to have freedom with the landscape and its possibilities so I created a fictional town. Zonta, Nebraska came to me in layers of research: the physical geography, historical indigenous inhabitants, the groups that later settled the area, as well as their culture, societal structures, economics, and industry. This really helped me to contextualize Job and Ifi’s story, the kinds of opportunities that the landscape affords them and the ways that it might deceive them as the reality jars with the projection of their fantasies and expectations.
My next novel is set in a fictional central Florida community. I lived in Florida as an undergraduate at the University of Central Florida and later for a teaching position at the University of Tampa.
As I grow familiar with the southwest, I imagine that Arizona will find its way into my imagination as well.
Daughter of Nigerian parents, aware of their sacrifices and quest to capture the American Dream. What’s the impact of their journey on your own dreams?
There’s something wildly audacious about leaving your home country and starting life in a new place. From time to time I have to remind myself that my parents did that — my parents are actually pretty badass. Maybe this is why they’ve been supportive of my writing.
Being a writer is a wildly impractical ambition, particularly for the child of immigrants, but my parents never treated it as something impractical. I think I’m lucky in that regard. I know so many young writers who were encouraged to be accountants and engineers instead.
As a child, I never felt any dream was out of reach.
For Job and Ifi, America is exhilarating and treacherous, familiar and alienating. I also wanted to have freedom with the landscape and its possibilities so I created a fictional town. Zonta, Nebraska came to me in layers of research: the physical geography, historical indigenous inhabitants, the groups that later settled the area, as well as their culture, societal structures, economics, and industry. This really helped me to contextualize Job and Ifi’s story, the kinds of opportunities that the landscape affords them and the ways that it might deceive them as the reality jars with the projection of their fantasies and expectations.
My next novel is set in a fictional central Florida community. I lived in Florida as an undergraduate at the University of Central Florida and later for a teaching position at the University of Tampa.
As I grow familiar with the southwest, I imagine that Arizona will find its way into my imagination as well.
Daughter of Nigerian parents, aware of their sacrifices and quest to capture the American Dream. What’s the impact of their journey on your own dreams?
There’s something wildly audacious about leaving your home country and starting life in a new place. From time to time I have to remind myself that my parents did that — my parents are actually pretty badass. Maybe this is why they’ve been supportive of my writing.
Being a writer is a wildly impractical ambition, particularly for the child of immigrants, but my parents never treated it as something impractical. I think I’m lucky in that regard. I know so many young writers who were encouraged to be accountants and engineers instead.
As a child, I never felt any dream was out of reach.
Excerpt from Chapter 3
A pale-blue skyline rimmed with ash gray guided the Audi along the interstate. Job drove in silence until they reached a junction and turned off onto a two-lane road. Zonta, the town that would be Ifi’s new home, was twenty or thirty miles south of the Red Cloud reservation, and south of Zonta was Omaha, where Job said he went to medical school. They would meet Gladys and Emeka in Omaha for dinner. This was also where Job commuted to for work each night. Zonta, Nebraska, was a town whose name meant “trusted flat waters.” The Indians had named it that. Job told her this as they sped over concrete roads surrounded by flats ankle deep in snow. One year, he said, in the middle of winter, there were several hot days, and it all melted. “River drained into street,” Job said, thrusting one finger along the skyline. He had finally understood what the name meant.
All the way to town they passed trees, skinny, brown, and gnarled like old hands. Snow wetted the fingers. Overnight, there would be such a freeze that from a distance the trees would look silver. Later, this was the feature that pleased Ifi most when she stared out the window at night while Job was away at the hospital.
Dusk melted into a chalk white that floated and exploded into the sky. Job clicked the wipers, and they flipped back and forth at a frenetic pace, splitting the flakes. In defiance, they grew fatter and rimmed the windshield with dust that scattered on the wind.
“Snow,” Ifi said as it slowly dawned on her. She had only read of it in books. This was snow, flaking on the car, the same as the blanket laid on the grass. This is America, she said to herself. She would scoop it into an envelope and mail it to Aunty. No, she would not do that. She laughed. Instead, she would take a picture for her little cousins. Without thinking, Ifi reached for the door handle.
Job swerved the car. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”
Save for a pickup truck that had passed many miles before, there was no one else on the road. “Let’s stop. I would like to touch it.”
He gave her a strange look. “We cannot be late to dinner.”
“Darling,” Ifi said, settling on the word she had heard Aunty and Uncle use in the middle of quarrels.
“Okie, okie,” he said. “We will stop. We are not far from home.”
They pulled off the road and parked in a clearing surrounded by twisted metal piping for a fence. Clapboard sheds were spread across the fields. These were the county fairgrounds, where twice a year, during the fair and on Independence Day, everything was lit up. Farther still was just the outline of a string of corrugated-iron warehouses.
Ifi opened her palms and let snow fall into them. She scooped it into her
hands, pressed them together. She placed it in her mouth and tasted. It was cold and wet, like rain. That was all. She felt foolish.
At first he sat in the car, wiping away the fog on the inside of the windshield. Then he came out, his back against the car, as she rose from the snow. She looked to him like he imagined himself at nineteen, walking the curious, ginger walk of feet unfamiliar with snow. She shivered. When her eyes met his, he said softly, “I did that as well.”
Snow was in her hands. It melted and ran along her palms and evaporated into the white at her feet. Again she looked at him, and it suddenly occurred to her. “I can do anything here,” she said, her eyes large and bright. When he looked at her again with a queer expression, she elaborated. “I can be anything. Like you,” she said. “I can be a doctor in America if I like.”
All the way to town they passed trees, skinny, brown, and gnarled like old hands. Snow wetted the fingers. Overnight, there would be such a freeze that from a distance the trees would look silver. Later, this was the feature that pleased Ifi most when she stared out the window at night while Job was away at the hospital.
Dusk melted into a chalk white that floated and exploded into the sky. Job clicked the wipers, and they flipped back and forth at a frenetic pace, splitting the flakes. In defiance, they grew fatter and rimmed the windshield with dust that scattered on the wind.
“Snow,” Ifi said as it slowly dawned on her. She had only read of it in books. This was snow, flaking on the car, the same as the blanket laid on the grass. This is America, she said to herself. She would scoop it into an envelope and mail it to Aunty. No, she would not do that. She laughed. Instead, she would take a picture for her little cousins. Without thinking, Ifi reached for the door handle.
Job swerved the car. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”
Save for a pickup truck that had passed many miles before, there was no one else on the road. “Let’s stop. I would like to touch it.”
He gave her a strange look. “We cannot be late to dinner.”
“Darling,” Ifi said, settling on the word she had heard Aunty and Uncle use in the middle of quarrels.
“Okie, okie,” he said. “We will stop. We are not far from home.”
They pulled off the road and parked in a clearing surrounded by twisted metal piping for a fence. Clapboard sheds were spread across the fields. These were the county fairgrounds, where twice a year, during the fair and on Independence Day, everything was lit up. Farther still was just the outline of a string of corrugated-iron warehouses.
Ifi opened her palms and let snow fall into them. She scooped it into her
hands, pressed them together. She placed it in her mouth and tasted. It was cold and wet, like rain. That was all. She felt foolish.
At first he sat in the car, wiping away the fog on the inside of the windshield. Then he came out, his back against the car, as she rose from the snow. She looked to him like he imagined himself at nineteen, walking the curious, ginger walk of feet unfamiliar with snow. She shivered. When her eyes met his, he said softly, “I did that as well.”
Snow was in her hands. It melted and ran along her palms and evaporated into the white at her feet. Again she looked at him, and it suddenly occurred to her. “I can do anything here,” she said, her eyes large and bright. When he looked at her again with a queer expression, she elaborated. “I can be anything. Like you,” she said. “I can be a doctor in America if I like.”
* * *
When did you decide becoming a writer? What are the biggest obstacles you may have anticipated and one or two that took you by surprise along the way?
I’ve always been writing. When I was a girl I had a little makeshift office with a typewriter and dictionary where I would write. My parents kept me in an endless supply of books from Scholastic book fairs and trips to the city library in the summers.
By the time I was eight or nine I had the great idea that my novel was ready to be published so I wrote query letters to a couple of publishing houses. My mother encouraged me and suggested that I include a little narrative about myself. I found the addresses in my favorite books at the time, The Baby Sitters Club and a Judy Blume or Beverley Cleary book.
I typed the letters up and sent them off. One publisher responded. In a form letter they explained that they were not accepting “unsolicited works” at the time. What did “unsolicited” mean? I had to look it up in my dad’s giant red dictionary, and even then I wasn’t quite sure what it meant — maybe that was a good thing, because I kept writing.
As an adult, my greatest surprise was about the business of publishing. I didn’t really have an idea of how much marketing projections and things like that play a role in whether your book will even get signed. A book can get rejected because the one African writer on the roster the year before didn’t do well or because a female protagonist is projected to market more successfully to your presumed audience than a male one.
I persevered through all of these setbacks until everything clicked with Coffee House Press. I feel very privileged to have signed with them. I love their mission to celebrate craft and imagination.
You keep yourself busy with your teaching assignments, writing fellowships, conferences and more. How do you feel about all your engagements?
I never knew that writing could take me to so many places. I’ve had so many opportunities to travel and meet people from all over the world, both as a writer, educator, and academic, and I think it’s really shaped me for the better.
I seek out opportunities to explore new places, and I try to better understand their underlying stories and the mechanics of how they leave their imprint on the world.
Being a professor allows some freedom schedule-wise — and most importantly my curiosity and creativity are rewarded.
Mr. and Mrs. Doctor is published by Coffee House Press in Minneapolis, MN? What was the beginning of that relationship and what role has it played in promoting your work?
From the very beginning I felt that my editor, Anitra Budd, really understood the complexity of Job and his relationship to the Midwest as a newcomer and marginalized person, as an immigrant and person of color.
It’s so important for writers to know that the people who are publishing their book understand it in all of its richness. They must also believe in the book and its writer.
I feel this way about everyone at Coffee House Press and I’m so fortunate to work with them. I know they have worked tirelessly to get my book in the hands of as many readers as possible.
Mr. and Mrs. Doctor continues to receive great reviews and acknowledgement by numerous platforms. What does it all mean and what’s next in store for your readers?
I’m very energized by the great reviews, but I’m also on to the next book, using the things I learned from writing this debut novel to help me with writing the next book. Of course, I also recognize that each book teaches you how to write it so there are new lessons along the way.
While Mr. and Mrs. Doctor deals with the immigrants themselves, my novel-in-progress deals with the children of immigrants. I won’t say much more (I’m superstitious about works in progress).