Bryan Washington, 32, grew up near Houston, Texas. He is the author of the short story collection Lot, which won the 2020 Dylan Thomas prize, as well as the novels Memorial and Family Meal. His fourth book, Palaver, tracks the complex relationship between two characters – known only as “the son” and “the mother” – as the latter travels from the US to visit her son after 10 years of estrangement. Washington, like the son, lives in Tokyo.
Where did the idea for Palaver come from?
It started as a short story that was structured as a conversation between a mother and a son over the course of a few weeks in Tokyo. At the time, I wasn’t a resident of Japan, so at the outset of Covid, I was gridlocked out of the country. I wrote the story about missing friends and local haunts. After it was published I realised I was still interested in the interplay between these two characters and the ways in which a physical location can impact a relationship.
In modern fiction the protagonists’ names are often not revealed, but “the son” and “the mother” are stark labels. Why?
The first reason was structural: knowing that the book takes place largely in Shin-Ōkubo, a very specific neighbourhood in Tokyo, there were cultural footholds that wouldn’t have been immediately accessible for most readers. But a mother, a son – these ideas exist in our common language. Another reason was that so much of the mother and the son’s journey is concerned with drifting away from codified ideas of what a mother is and what a son is into who they really are. That tension feels central.
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Tell me about the photos that feature in the novel.
Palaver took about five years to write, and I took the photos over four years. Because of the specificity of some of the locales in the novel, I thought it would help to have a visual language alongside the literal language. There are some things – whether the closeness of buildings, the specificity of a seat on a train or the expanse of a view – that seemed more valuable to picture rather than spend 500 words describing.
How long have you lived in Japan?
Two years, but I’ve been visiting the country for a decade. At first I came to see friends. At the time, a ticket from Houston was not prohibitively expensive if you were OK with three or four layovers. Originally I spent time in Kansai, and I was very taken by the kindness of the folks, by the food, by the ambience of the cities.
What’s your Tokyo neighbourhood like?
I live in Shinjuku, pretty close to Ni-chōme, which is one of the major gaybourhoods. I live close to a really lively area, but where I am is quiet and calm. It’s deeply walkable.
Has living in Japan changed how you write?
Absolutely, but I could say the same thing for the time that I spent in Los Angeles, New York or Toronto. Each of these places has their own rhythm. But wherever I am, I find I am concerned with the same three or four questions from book to book and from story to story.
What are those questions?
What is a relationship? What forms can care take? What role does pleasure have in a person’s life? What risks will a person take in order to get closer to who they feel they should be, particularly if that entity isn’t entirely clear to them yet? What’s fascinating to me is that the moment I’ve felt I’ve gotten close to how a character may feel about these things, I’ve learned something that shifts my sense of whatever the answer could be.
The son finds his chosen family in Tokyo. What role has community played in your life?
It’s been integral as far as seeing the range of possibilities for how to be, particularly as a queer person who came of age in Houston. It was queer community, in literature, in life, whether in bars, clubs or various queer spaces, that helped me figure out what narrative was to me. I’m only interested in seeing my work as part of a larger conversation with artists who are asking similar questions, even if we come up with sometimes radically different answers.
Which artists do you relate to?
Ocean Vuong, Rabih Alameddine, Jacqueline Woodson, Tash Aw. People who are reshaping how words elucidate experience and widening our sense of what is possible, not only on the page but also in life. When folks are doing that, especially when they’re queer artists, it’s deeply inspiring, particularly because there are so many entities conspiring against that expansion of the possible.
Has that pressure become worse recently?
Of course. It’s never been good though. Queer artists will continue to find a way as conditions deteriorate. Community is extremely important for that, as is knowing that the stories we’re telling exist in a larger network of narratives that preceded us contemporary storytellers, and hopefully will last long after our time.
Which books by Japanese authors deserve to be better known in the anglophone world?
Real World and Swallows by Natsuo Kirino. Jose Ando’s Jackson Alone, which is really amazing. One of the books that got me thinking that writing fiction could be something I could do is Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto. I’m always grateful to translators for expanding what is available in English.
Which queer authors have influenced you?
James Baldwin – I read Another Country at the end of high school; Edmund White, who recently passed away; and Alan Hollinghurst. I read The Line of Beauty around the time of my undergrad.
What are you writing next?
I’m working on a few things, including a novel. But I’ve learned not to talk about [my work in progress].
Palaver is published by Atlantic Books (£14.99)
Photograph by Antonio Chicaia/New York Times/Redux/eyevine