Ananda Lima writes for the devil

Writers think a lot about how and why they write. Inevitably, the question must be answered: “Who am I writing for?” Some decide to write for themselves. Others want to appeal directly to the market. Still others decide to write for their muse: a spouse, a child, a distant relative. Chicago author Ananda Lima writes for the devil.

Ananda Lima and Daniel Borzutzky in conversation
Thurs., Sept. 5, 7 p.m., Pilsen Community Books, 1102 W. 18th St., register at pilsencommunitybooks.com/events/41099

Lima’s first short story collection, Crafts: Stories I wrote for the devilbegins with an unnamed author sleeping with the devil at a party in 1999, and leads into a story written by said author about sleeping with the devil at a party in 1981. The collection maintains the back and forth between stories written by the author and stories by the author herself. Often the interludes shed light on the story that follows. Just before the story “Porcelain,” Lima’s author argues with herself about what the rat means in the next story, crossing out suggestions like “The man becomes a rat” or “The rat never comes.”

There are beautiful, narratively connected interludes between the title stories, covering the mundanity of waiting in a DMV and the complications of COVID-19. In each, the devil returns, sometimes as inspiration, sometimes as a friend, but always as a jumping-off point for the next narrative offering designed to satisfy his hunger.

The stories stand out as exceptional short stories. In “Idle Hands,” we are treated to a series of workshop participants’ reactions to the author’s story. It’s a biting, accurate portrait of the silliness and subtle violence of the workshop comments. In “Antropófaga,” the protagonist Béia eats American food that comes out of her workplace’s vending machine for lunch. Its nutritional value is questionable, but she can’t resist. Even an extremely short story like “Rent,” in which roommates decide to release a ghost from the piano left behind by their fornicating roommate, is brimming with energy.

Each story fits a cliched “type” of short story. There’s one with a ghost, one with magical realism, one about a workshop, one about returning home. The stories become commentaries on the craft, set between the author’s experiences and reflections in the interludes. During one such interlude, a great example of this meta-conversation about novel writing occurs: “The author was also an immigrant. Sometimes when the immigrant was writing, migration didn’t come up in the story, and she wondered if there should be… These were the kinds of questions she talked to the devil about.” This meta-commentary asks readers to consider that what one is allowed to write about are the kinds of stories we are told.

Crafts is about stories – how we tell them, who we tell them for, how storytelling pulls us out of the darkest corners, how stories shape our perception of the world. Lima’s book is, yes, about storytelling. It’s also about the moment when a reader lifts their head from the page and the cafe doesn’t feel the same as it used to. It’s brighter. The warmth of the baristas smells of humanity. What they read has opened their eyes to something new. Crafts invites us to think of stories as the possibility of a more human experience, as the potential for something else. Even if they are written for the devil himself.

Crafts: Stories I wrote for the devil from Optional extras
Tor Books, hardcover, 192 pages, $24.99, us.macmillan.com/books/9781250292971/craft