Cajetan Sorich is a writer whose work addresses the tensions in our society that are rooted in power systems we’re at odds to topple, however much we should try. I sent her some questions hoping she’d offer insights into the corners of her mind that prove fascinating with every reread of her work. Of course, I asked silly questions, and, to her credit, Caj provided better answers.
V Francone: What’s good writing to Caj Sorich?
C Sorich: I have no idea what makes good writing. No, I'm kidding. But yeah, anything can be good writing. The good writing lets me know it's good so I don't have to contemplate this. I guess it has to be compelling enough, in whatever combination of ways, to get the reader to the end by its own merit. Funny, beautiful, ugly, entertaining. But there's plenty of exceptions to that, I'm sure. There's no rule for good writing, but I love concreteness. Small scale, like linguistically, but also overall, like plot. I prefer an active plot over something highly abstract. The more twisty turns, the better. Like a Coen brothers movie. In plots like that, the logic has to be really tight, and I appreciate that. And I like when things unfold in real time. I hate learning about a character from vague flashbacks. Like, withholding information by not giving the character's deep dark secret, only alluding to it, until after the climax is a cheap way to build and dissolve tension. Turn back the clock and just tell me the full back story. I love experimentation, but I hate when it's used as a crutch or in place of a good ass story. I'm sort of describing the opposite of my own writing. Which is why nothing, to me, beats a good plot. I can't do it.
One thing that [Caj’s story] “The Swampian Reconquest” is, is a shout out to this motif I saw in some Irish literature, particularly Marina Carr's play By the Bog of Cats. It's this idea that swamps are mystical sinkholes teeming with ghosts—experiences from generations past. Bogs can mummify bodies, so it's like they have preservation power both physically and metaphysically. I used the swamp as a vehicle for viewing some history through metaphysically preserved layers. The "reconquest" refers to The Society of the Spectacle [link here: https://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/debord/society.htm ] type stuff: how the US grinds up anything real, relieving, or empowering, flattens it, and sells it back to us.
VF: What’s your imperfect happiness?
CS: Complete control over everything.
VF: Favorite fear?
CS: Fear of seeing, reading, or hearing things that I find beautiful, or even just "really good." I'm super easily affected—I'll cry if I hear a favorite song that I've heard and cried to 50 times before. It doesn't even have to be a sad work—it's the liking that's painful! Moving, but uncomfortable. I think my wires are crossed. I don't like when this happens because most of the time I'm in public trying to function. I often have to be strategic about what I consume and when.
VF: Your worst quality that you’ll never change?
CS: Adding just one more reason, real quick, why I'm right.
VF: What living person do you most despise who you can’t ignore?
CS: My long-time best friend's mom, who in our high school years forbade us from hanging out for a small stint. I still have a grudge.
VF: Name a work of art you’re mildly embarrassed to love?
CS: I have to close my eyes through a lot, but Jackass, the show and the movies. I didn't see any of it until I was like 22, and once I did was like, "Hey this is pretty high concept."
VF: If you could change anything about other people, what would you change?
CS: It'd be nice if everyone was willing to strike from their jobs at once. Just a big ol’ jumbo mass walkout workers’ revolution, everything's closed, nobody's selling shit. I'd be giggling all day. Also, no more small talk. "Hello," "goodbye," "sorry." That's all I'm allowing from now on.
VF: What is your least important talent?
CS: I can projectile shoot a stream of water from between my two front teeth. It's very precise. I can control the distance and pressure level.
VF: Where would you never like to be?
CS: At 18 I worked reception at a yoga studio owned by a real estate guy named Mark Weiss. Never want to be there again. He relied on me heavily because I was one of only two people that worked there, but he paid me minimum wage. He was a fucking weirdo and would treat me like a personal assistant. Once he made me list like 200 obscure DVDs on eBay for him. Not good obscure, either. Lots of shitty exercise videos. There's one title burned into my brain: "Jamaican Me Sweat." He also fired my one coworker, Annie, on her birthday. For no reason. He lied and told me she quit to pursue charity work. After that I quit with no notice. He pleaded for me to wait until he found someone new, and I said, "Sorry, can't. Maybe you could see if Annie's free from her charity work."
But here’s another: I once spent a night in Santa Cruz, and I deem it the worst city I've ever been to. I didn't know anything about it, but from the get go I could sense this fucked up ness, because the architecture and landscape were so clean and dreamy, but juxtaposed with many, many homeless people. SC does in fact have one of the highest homeless rates in the US. You barely have to look for the economic disparity to smack you in the face at every turn. I was there with friends to perform at an anarchist bookstore, and the stupid hipster who was supposed to be in charge of the place let our money and suitcase full of merch get stolen. We scoped the town on foot and ended up finding the suitcase in a drugstore parking lot—it had been spray painted black and some guy was attempting to sell our T-shirts. We got it back—the one positive Santa Cruz moment, which was soon ruined by sleeping on the floor of the grossest house ever that smelled like stale frying oil, where we were kept up all night by a barking dog and people having loud sex.