Milk Blood Heat <\/em><\/a>was published in 2021 by Grove Atlantic.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
Steven Archer for\u00a0The Florida Review:<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\nThe first and last stories, \u201cMilk Blood Heat\u201d and \u201cAn Almanac of Bones,\u201d feature friendships scrutinized by disapproving parents on the basis of difference, cultural and otherwise; the former others the white family, the latter othered by <\/em>the white family, and both protagonists grapple with seeking in their friends\u2019 families what they lack at home. Could you share a bit about what that dynamic means to you, from a cultural perspective? Did you mean for these stories to be inverses\/ bookends?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
Dantiel W. Moniz:<\/strong><\/p>\nIt makes so much sense that I write about grappling with whiteness in the ways these characters do in both of these stories, as I feel I\u2019m still in the process of unlearning so many conditioned thoughts and habits that have rooted within me just by being alive in America. If you grow up anywhere in the world, and in the particular brand of it that this country produces, you are steeped in whiteness from birth, in every facet of life, explicitly and implicitly, and that invisibility can be one of the most dangerous parts. The ideology and systemic privilege of it (or the disadvantage of its lack), and the internalization of its supremacy, both in desire and repulsion. I think Sylvie (the protagonist of Almanac) falls a little more into this latter camp. While she absolutely uses Kit and her family as a measuring post in some ways, she also inherently understands that what she has, though viewed as lesser than, is powerfully her own, and having that normalization would actually be the lesser thing. I don\u2019t think anyone\u2019s work has to \u201cdeal\u201d with the idea of whiteness (though I wish more white author\u2019s works would), but right now, it\u2019s still a project of mine. I want to make its effect on the lived world, the macro, micro, and everything in between, a little easier to see.<\/p>\n
“An Almanac of Bones” was written before Milk Blood Heat<\/em> was ever conceived of, so there wasn\u2019t any conscious creation of echo, but definitely after having completed drafts of each of the stories that would make the collection, I noticed there was a lot of mirroring happening throughout, in these two pieces and beyond. I always knew I wanted Almanac to close out the book, but it was only due to both my agent and editor\u2019s insight that I realized MBH should open it. I love cyclical stories, so I\u2019m glad it worked out this way for the collection as a whole.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
TFR:<\/strong><\/p>\nYou write about bodies in such a refreshing, fascinating way, leaning into honest renderings of the human body without resorting to the gross-out. I\u2019m thinking specifically of \u201cThicker Than Water\u201d and its exploration of scent\u2014discharge smelling of egg, armpits of onion or celery. How important was this choice to you, especially with your women protagonists? How did you go about it from a craft angle?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DWM:<\/strong><\/p>\nBut bodies are gross sometimes! And I think if we were more honest about this, or at least more willing to admit this as human, <\/em>we would all be better off. Women are conditioned to uphold the importance of being clean and sweet 24\/7. It\u2019s almost like I came into the world knowing I needed to be mindful of how I looked, how I smelled, even how I tasted; it\u2019s an absurd pressure to put on a human body, which is generally unconcerned with anything other than its survival. And sometimes, those necessary functions are anything but pretty, the same way grief can be unpretty, anger, wanting. These rigid standards also make it harder to lean fully into pleasure. At the beginning of dating my husband, when we were 19 and 20, I remember him making this joke like, \u201cWhenever you\u2019re in the bathroom for a while, I\u2019ll just tell myself you\u2019re taking a long pee,\u201d and I corrected him immediately, saying, \u201cNo, I\u2019ll be taking a shit. Just like you do.\u201d And though that was something I might not have ever said in previous relationships, I\u2019m glad I did, because it\u2019s so important to be able to take something for its fullness. It\u2019s the only way to really love someone. It\u2019s the same for my work. I have to let the characters be full in order to be real, and I especially wanted to honor that for the women and girls who people my collection. From a craft perspective, I\u2019m thinking less about \u201chow not to gross out my reader\u201d and more how I think of crafting sentences and images in general: how does this sound, what\u2019s the rhythm of this, and does it hit on the larger idea I hope to convey?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
TFR<\/em>:<\/strong><\/p>\nSo many of these stories feature moments of consumption as catalyst, catharsis, or climax\u2014the blood rite in the title story, the octopus in \u201cFeast,\u201d the snails in \u201cThe Hearts of Our Enemies,\u201d the bone fragment in \u201cThicker Than Water,\u201d milk from a distant mother in \u201cAn Almanac of Bones.\u201d Could you touch on how this motif found its way into your work? What draws you to write about eating, feeding others, being fed, especially when it comes to ingesting weird, weaponized, or non-food items?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DWM:<\/strong><\/p>\nThis is a beautiful question. I don\u2019t think anyone\u2019s ever asked this before. So much of my writing comes from an instinctive place. It\u2019s often hard for me to see what\u2019s coming up until I have it all in front of me, so I\u2019m not sure, in its creation, why this element came into the work. But this question makes me realize, I am interested in how we nourish our bodies, or starve them. What we put into ourselves and what becomes us. With Feast, there was definitely this Phoenix choice, of wanting rebirth, a new opportunity to start fresh, and often we can\u2019t have that if we\u2019re clinging onto a damaged foundation. This motif kind of reminds me of the Tower card, which can be scary in a reading, but it really means transformation, if you\u2019re willing to let go. With food, there\u2019s also this element of connection; it can be a love language (which is why it\u2019s so savage when it\u2019s used as a means of revenge). Even the blood pact in MBH is about transformation. Let me become a little more you. Let us be the same. What we eat, who we feed, and what we desire in that feeding, can say a lot about a person or their world.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
TFR<\/em>:<\/strong><\/p>\nWhile perhaps the most intense use of food and eating comes in \u201cExotics,\u201d I wondered more in this case about how form and genre served the piece; it is the shortest piece in the collection, as well as its only speculative\/ fabulist piece, and is arguably the most direct in its portrayal and exploration of the interaction of Black and brown people with excess, privilege, and sacrifice. What went into the inclusion of this piece in the collection? Could you talk about distilling one of the collection\u2019s more subtle running threads in this way?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DWM:<\/strong><\/p>\nDefinitely one of the moments in my writing where I had to pause and think, Am I allowed to do this<\/em>? Fun fact, there was actually another story in the book that I cut, that I think would have been described as speculative, and I wonder if it had stayed in, if people would have accepted Exotics <\/em>as a necessary part of this book more readily. Probably not though\u2014I\u2019ve witnessed that people thrill to be snobby about mediums they perceive as genre. I think what lends this piece a lot of its speculative coloring is that I\u2019m doing directly what I\u2019m doing more subtly in every other story in this book\u2014examining capitalism, race, class, consumption, how we cannibalize youth, and our complicity in these systems\u2014which makes it feel surreal. I think people often don\u2019t want to look at these things in their own lives and neighborhoods, so it makes it particularly unpleasant to have to in this way. For me, this story belongs in this collection. It\u2019s right at home.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
TFR<\/em>:<\/strong><\/p>\nThe stories in your collection feel distinctly Floridian, and yet often get away with not name-dropping the specific areas in which they take place. What aspects of the Florida landscape, culture, and experience felt most important in capturing such an authentic portrait of life in the northern part of the state?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DWM:<\/strong><\/p>\nI am a person who situates herself through landmark and memorization. I very rarely know street names and my sense of direction is\u2026not the greatest. Mostly because I\u2019m focused on other things and when I\u2019m really present where I\u2019m at, more ephemeral elements come to me. Like noticing the color and quality of light or how tree bark feels under my palm (if you have ever walked somewhere with me, you know how often I stop for trees). So being super specific about names and buildings or even particular cities wasn\u2019t a priority for me. I was most interested in capturing the quality of heat of my state, its presence and aliveness, and how it enacts on the characters. That type of omnipresence becomes a mood.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
TFR<\/em>:<\/strong><\/p>\nOn a related note, so many of these characters come to life as vivid, well-realized, believable members of assorted Black and Hispanic demographics without being explicitly tethered to one background or another, even when one could hazard a guess using markers like the fish dreams in \u201cNecessary Bodies\u201d or the refrain of \u201cpor la sangre\u201d in \u201cThicker Than Water.\u201d Was this ambiguity a conscious choice? Did you find yourself writing with specific groups in mind, even if they were ultimately unnamed?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DWM:<\/strong><\/p>\nIn my work, I\u2019m writing mostly around Blackness and its intersections. I was born a writer, it\u2019s natural to me, but it took me a very long time to begin writing stories about characters that shared aspects of my identity. And once I understood I could do that, it opened up so much for me. I had been reading books all my life that characterized certain people only by their exclusion from whiteness, which itself was allowed to remain invisible. \u201cThe girl walked into the room\u201d vs \u201cThe Black girl walked into the room,\u201d and that being the main point of distinction visually or otherwise, like once you say that one thing, you should be able to see her. And I suppose readers could, if they had in their mind some catchall for Blackness. Even when I didn\u2019t have the vocabulary for why, that used to upset me. So in my work, I don\u2019t feel I have to be explicit in that way. My characters\u2019 Blackness is not the biggest thing about them, though it does shape and direct their experiences.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
TFR<\/em>:<\/strong><\/p>\nLast Spring, Milk Blood Heat <\/em>was taught as part of a graduate course on Southern, Appalachian, and Florida literature at UCF, alongside the work of writers such as Steven Dunn, Jesmyn Ward, Leah Hampton, and Carter Sickels. What does \u201cFlorida literature\u201d mean to you, as part of, or removed from, \u201cthe South\u201d? How do you see your work in conversation with this emerging literary canon, and how might you hope to see that canon expand?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
DWM:<\/strong><\/p>\nThis breadth of writers is so interesting, especially when you consider that each of the regions that make up what people consider \u201cThe South\u201d is diverse and face the challenges that come with their particular national perceptions. Like, what Leah has to deal with in people\u2019s discrimination against Appalachia, or Jesmyn Ward writing about Mississippi, is different than what I deal with in the perception of Florida, but they all stem from the same place\u2014ignorance or indifference about the intentional repression or resource-stealing\/shuttering from these places. What I\u2019m excited for in the expansion of the canon of Floridian literature is the same thing I\u2019m interested in for my human characters\u2014a chance to explore its wholeness. To allow stories of people there to be as common as stories of people wandering around New York or other bigger, better regarded coastal cities. There are people trying to thrive even in the chaos of that place, and those people and their stories matter, regardless of its governance.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
TFR<\/em>:<\/strong><\/p>\nBeauty and hostility appear in equal measure throughout Milk Blood Heat, <\/em>in your portrayals of girls, women, mothers, siblings, and marriages, certainly, but also in your portrayal of Florida is a whole. Kids die at pool parties and nearly drown at the beach. Aquariums and museums full of nature and discovery are host to historical horrors, Klan activity, fiery destruction, black holes. Massive diversity and divisive politics; abundant wildlife, dyed water, pollution. With Florida being so often the butt of the joke, a shorthand for all things backwards and dangerous, did you feel at all compelled to temper or reclaim Florida\u2019s image through your writing? Did any part of this book come out of a desire to engage with national perception?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
DWM:<\/strong><\/p>\nAbsolutely. I think this question and the last are connected. And yes, I wanted to reclaim and to assert, but not to paint some idealized picture of Florida, but to show it for what it is, honestly, its dark and its light. I didn\u2019t grow up with the perception that my state was literary or that any writing of artistic merit might come from where I was from. I grew up thinking I might never leave my city, let alone my state, but what that means is, everything I am now started as seed in that place, even though I wished to, and did eventually, leave. And what I and other artists, thinkers, and creators there have to say is valuable. I think its especially critical now, in light of all the legislation that\u2019s being put in place to stop people from doing just that\u2014from learning, feeling, thinking and most of all, connecting. That scares the people in power. So I hope, in even a small way, my work might encourage someone who might not be encouraged otherwise because they\u2019d been overlooked.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
TFR<\/em>:<\/strong><\/p>\nI was delighted to read, in your previous interviews, what a big influence film and television are in your approach to writing. What are you watching these days? Do you think film and TV are given a fair shake in literary or academic spaces?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DWM:<\/strong><\/p>\nSo here\u2019s a fun thing I learned recently about symptoms of anxiety\u2014you have a higher tendency to re-watch instead of starting something new. It makes a lot of sense to me on that level, the comfort of the familiar, but also for me, there\u2019s the chance to analyze the same slant differently now that I know the story; even through the expected I usually come away with something new. Some always rewatches for me are Mad Men<\/em>, Insecure<\/em>, Veep<\/em>, The Florida Project,<\/em> and right now I\u2019m rewatching Castlevania <\/em>during flights. But I have <\/em>been watching new shows and films too. Bones and All<\/em>, both seasons of White Lotus<\/em>, season 2 of Russian Doll<\/em>, the latest of The Crown<\/em>. These works offered exactly that slice of human emotional fragility and darkness that I come to the page for. In the summer of 2021, after stumbling upon Season 20 of Survivor and never having seen a single episode before, I started streaming from season 1 and now I\u2019m on Season 41. Another thing I\u2019ve learned is that I don\u2019t really believe in this idea of trash tv. Like the Real Housewives of Atlanta<\/em> is not supposed to be like Sharp Objects<\/em>, although they both revolve around how women position themselves in power within their communities and families using socialized tools. I\u2019ve learned so much about performance, conditioning, and gaze from reality TV, so I think it\u2019s less about what you consume but how <\/em>you consume and metabolize it.<\/p>\nTo that point, I think more literary and academic spaces are making the explicit connection between these art mediums, and there\u2019s definitely more attention paid to the writing that goes into image-making because there\u2019s such an overlap between literature and adaptation. I\u2019m actually teaching an undergraduate course on image this semester, teaching two books (We the Animals<\/em> and The Virgin Suicides<\/em>) and their film counterparts.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
TFR<\/em>:<\/strong><\/p>\nIs there one piece of writing advice\u2014something you hold dear, or perhaps tell your students\u2014that you might share with us here?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DWM:<\/strong><\/p>\nThe writer Naomi Jackson once told me, \u201cIf someone can\u2019t see where you\u2019re going, they can\u2019t help you get there.\u201d Write for yourself and remember to protect that beginning space that\u2019s just you and the work. It\u2019s so important to get intentional about what the work is and what you hope to move toward before a community of writers can be useful to you. Be open to critique (this is so important) but remember you only have to take what resonates. And the best way to recognize that resonance goes back to understanding your intentionality for the work. One more thing\u2014remember to play in your writing, remember you like this.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
What we eat, who we feed, and what we desire in that feeding, can say a lot about a person or their world.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":7664,"template":"","categories":[9,140,49],"tags":[889,1900,350,1901],"class_list":["post-7658","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-interview","category-literary-features","tag-aquifer","tag-daniel-moniz","tag-interview","tag-milk-blood-heat"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n
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