5 Questions with Snakes

Snakes is an old nickname and the pseudonym of a New Zealand writer who has spent much of their time living overseas and working in the creative arts. They are writing their third book, a memoir. Short stories from Snakes will be featured in Folly Journal’s inaugural issue in 2023, chosen because of the candid honesty with which they explore love, sex and Wellington in the time before cellphones.  

You are writing under a pseudonym, but one which is lacking in context for readers. What can you tell us about this name?

Snakes is a nickname given to me by a dear, old pal in a certain time of our lives. When I was looking for a pseudonym, I remembered how fun it was to have that name and figured I’d give it another go. I like how dissonant and off it is. For me, I imagine a person called Snakes is a guy with a moustache, wearing leather, riding a chopper. I like writing that’s dissonant too, lots of opposite and clashing things.

Writing honestly takes courage, and can be professionally risky in a small country like New Zealand. Do you think you would have chosen a pseudonym if this journal were based in a large city, for instance, New York?

I wouldn’t need it so much in a big city. But regardless, I’d have it anyway. I write in the quiet dark of the early morning, in a kind of bubble outside all the fuss of the day. I very much like the separation. I need the separation to be able to keep writing freely and boldly, so a pseudonym is necessary for me.  

Where do you write from and how to you find inspiration for your stories? 

I write every day before dawn, still a little bit asleep, half dreaming. First I meditate, to get into an even deeper state. Then I just listen deeply, open the tap and write whatever comes through, as true as I can. I want to be able to hear what comes up from my body and deep subconscious, and write without any judgement or inhibition.

One of my writing teachers favourite quotes is from Emerson, “By lowly listening we shall hear the right word.”  Also, a dear friend and writing mentor used to say "Never use the twelve dollar words. Just use the cheap, simple stuff, the ten cent words. Then go through and make sure everything is absolutely honest.” I use these ideas to guide me. I’m not sure if they’re good, just that they make sense to me right now.

These days the only thing that seems to come out of me is narrative non-fiction and memoir. It feels like going down into the cellar and bringing up a bottle of wine. Has it’s been down there long enough? Is it good yet?  There’s that saying: “comedy = pain + time”. Has it been fermenting long enough? Has it got funny and interesting yet? Or is it still a bit thin and scratchy?

How do you think Wellington has changed from the Wellington you describe in your short stories?

In the late 80’s, Wellington was shittier. There were hardly any places to eat out, not much coffee and rent was cheap. I had a room for 35 bucks a week. Then things exploded. Suddenly, there was art everywhere. Bats Theatre came into being. They put posters all over town saying “Jism is Coming”. That was their first show— Jism. It was about a pair of siamese twins and some sex stuff. Folks were doing shows everywhere, in old carparks, on their front lawns, all over the place. We were all hanging out at Midnight Espresso, drinking proper Italian coffee for the first time, watching Tim and Geoff yelling and throwing plates at each other in the kitchen, laughing. It felt so alive.

I remember seeing The Threepenny Opera at Downstage. The Six Volts did a live score. The show started with a bloody carcass, a huge side of beef, being dropped into the middle of the stage in a spotlight, making this a huge, fleshy bang, and then the band starting up. That image is still seared into my soul. Plus, all the TV advertising was still being made here, all the corporations still had their head offices in Wellington, and everyone was spending large trying to outdo each other on big, fancy ads. Ads with fifty dancing girls, or a talking dog riding a skateboard, stuff like that. One time I was acting in one, and for dessert, on the lunch table, there were seven different kinds of elaborate gateau. It was like they were trying to spend as much money as they possibly could.

The ad folks would have lunch at Il Casino on Fridays and still be there at dinner time, eating and drinking, laughing, late into the night. I had a pal who worked as a production manager. One time he got back to his desk on a Friday and there was an envelope with ten grand cash inside, his name on it and the words “whose been a good boy then?”  That was what Wellington felt like to me back then. Very alive, very wild, very fun. Is it still like that? I can’t tell. I think so, maybe a bit more subdued. 

In your experience, how does Wellington's reputation as the "swingers capital" of New Zealand impact the level of openness among Wellingtonians when it comes to discussing topics related to sex?

Hmm, I didn’t know that Wellington is considered the swinger’s capital. Interesting. My experience is that Wellingtonians generally make pretty good lovers. I had a boyfriend here who described himself as “hung like a weasel’s fishing tackle”. I find this hilarious from the jump. Who says that?! Sheesh. We laughed all the time. His flatmates said they could hear laughter coming out of his room whenever we were home. 

To me, where there’s lotsa real laughs and good humour, there can also be lots of joyful, fun sex. These days, in all sorts of ways, I find myself laughing in this city and having fun. And I hear plenty of frank, nuanced discussion about sex. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe folks particularly talk to me about it. Or maybe it’s the open, inclusive culture of this place. I love a walking city too, where we can bump into each other more easily. I find there’s more tolerance, mutual understanding and respect. All good ingredients for high-quality sex lives.  

You’ve spent many years working overseas and in creative industries. How have these experiences impacted your writing style?

The longer I go, the more I just like the real stuff, the unpretentious, bold, honest, fearless expression straight out of a person’s soul. Everything that’s not that, I don’t want much to do with.

Seeing “the arts” go down in lots of different ways, places and mediums over some decades, I’ve seen a lot of good stuff get squashed. All the resource that’s wasted on ego and power games, it's a miracle to me—at least in the film world, that anything good ever makes the light of day. And that's not because there’s not heaps of great talent. It’s because there’s often a layer of bullshit over the top of things, that seems to get denser the more money and power are at stake. Or, in a small country like New Zealand, sometimes petty stuff, like interpersonal grudges and jealousy get played out, even if there’s not a lot of money around. My experience is that “the business of art” can be immensely corrupt and idiotic. You only need to glance at Hollywood to see that. But art itself is so pure! I wonder if making it in the arts involves being able to walk in both of those worlds— a skill that seems beyond me. But perhaps it also involves endurance, which maybe I can do.