James R. Gapinski is the author of the novella Edge of the Known Bus Line, as well as the forthcoming short story collection, The Museum of Future Mistakes, which won the 2024 BOA Short Fiction Prize. They are the managing editor of Conium Press, a boutique literary publisher in Portland, Oregon, an Adjunct Professor in Southern New Hampshire University’s MFA program, and the Director of TRIO Student Support Services at Portland Community College.
It was my privilege to help edit the short story “Brother and Not-Brother” by James R. Gapinski, which was first published in the Winter 2024 Issue of Variant Literature. This was my first project with Variant, and my first role at a magazine, as I was still fresh from a graduate program and learning the ropes of the literary world. What I appreciated immediately about the culture of Variant is how it maintained the rigorous, collaborative, and text-first approach I had come to love in my MFA. When we choose a piece for the magazine, we believe this means opening up a dialogue with the author about how to nudge the story even closer to the best version of itself that it can be. As an editor of the story, I came to deeply admire the nuances of Gapinski’s voice; the strangeness, humor, and pathos of the narrative; and the specificity of word choice. The author was a willing partner in this collaborative project, and as my first attempt at the process, I felt incredibly proud when it went out into the world in Issue #17 of Variant Literature.
I had the opportunity to collaborate further with James R. Gapinski when I was sent an early copy of their forthcoming short story collection, The Museum of Future Mistakes, which collects, among many other excellent stories, “Brother and Not-Brother.” After wandering the halls of the “Museum,” and meeting its many strange and wonderful figures, I sent the author the below list of questions. The answers were provided via email and have been edited and arranged for clarity and length.
William J. Cagle: You have many excellent and eye-catching story titles in this collection (for instance “When the Astronauts Landed in Our Neighborhood,” “Three-Month Autopsy,” or “Migratory Patterns”) but The Museum of Future Mistakes, the name of the opening story, was chosen for the collection’s title. What do you feel like this story’s title communicates about the collection as a whole?
James R. Gapinski: Many of the stories in this book find characters in existential crisis, often navigating a significant change and worrying about implications for the future. The concept of putting these insecurities and anxieties on display in a museum fits the overall experience of the collection nicely, almost like each story is a different exhibit.
WJC: Your titles often establish the conceit or conflict of the story and speak directly to the first line that follows. (For example, the story titled “Karol’s Cleaners Will Clean Anything” begins with the line “That’s what the sign says.”) What is your approach to writing opening lines? Do you begin with them or return later?
JRG: Most of the time, I return to the opening line later, and I find the best opening idea or image during revision. This is particularly true for longer pieces. I find myself overwriting in a rough draft, and a lot of that dead weight is front-loaded as I ease into the story. In revision, I’m usually trimming away all that preamble and finding a more immediate, attention-grabbing moment to begin with. You mention “Karol’s Cleaners Will Clean Anything,” and that piece was different. For that story, I had the opener right away, and I never deviated from it. The entire story grew from that initial seed of an idea. So it varies, but most of the time I’m revising toward a strong opener.
WJC: On the topic of beginnings, I’m curious where the concept of a story begins for you. Many of your stories operate with a singular, magical realism conceit which distorts our familiar world. Do you begin with this conceit, or with a character, or with a narrative?
JRG: I usually start with a conceit. I enjoy writing stories where weird stuff happens. I’m often beginning with a thought experiment that simply asks: “What if…?” I’m eager to explore those strange possibilities as a starting point, but character comes quickly after. Without a strong character, the conceit dies on the vine. It’s easy to be like, “What if a person’s fingernails were haunted?” The harder part is figuring out who that person is, what they care about, and how it translates to a story.
WJC: Do you have any writers who have especially inspired you, particularly in this genre space of magical realism? Any favorite recent story collections?
JRG: In graduate school I studied a lot of magical realist writers: Karen Russell, Etgar Keret, and Aimee Bender were some of my earliest influences in the genre. More recently, I’ve been inspired by Bora Chung’s short story collections Cursed Bunny and Your Utopia, Gwen E. Kirby’s Shit Cassandra Saw, and Brenda Peynado’s The Rock Eaters.
WJC: Those references make a lot of sense. In particular, I see a lot of affinity with Bora Chung’s Your Utopia, which I found remarkable and unsettling. I noticed that you have a tendency to ground your stories very firmly in our world, whether with specific references to places in Portland or references to contemporary pop culture. For you as a writer and reader, what effect do these kinds of references have?
JRG: Firstly, from a craft perspective, those elements help tether the story to some believable reality, and this makes it easier for readers to accept the more outlandish elements of the story. Secondly, my work often reflects the time and place in which it is written. I’m rarely trying to write something “evergreen,” because my diction, choice of subjects, and other elements are still going to date my pieces. I’d rather explore a city I know and love than traverse a vague “Anytown, USA” environment. I’d rather reference popular objects, brands, and cultural artifacts than populate a story with stand-ins for these. Basically, I want these pieces to embrace an authentic, lived moment.
WJC: You also often utilize lists in your descriptions, which contribute to a common structure throughout your stories: escalation. A conflict or a strangeness emerges, and is quickly taken to its extreme, in the manner of classic escalation stories like Donald Barthelme’s “The School.” Is this a conscious technique? What does escalation offer to you as a writer?
JRG: It’s serendipitous that you brought up Barthelme; I’m revising a newer piece that has an unrelenting sense of escalation, and “The School” came up as an example when I discussed this work with an editor. Some of my stories are quieter, but I do typically want to ratchet up the absurdity with each beat. I want the opener of a piece to act like an invitation, asking the reader to take my hand and follow me into the story, step-by-step, even as the piece continues to get weirder. If I leap ahead too quickly, I think the reader can get lost or frustrated. But as the story progresses, the reader falls into this rhythm and bigger escalations are possible.
WJC: Many of the stories in the collection are flash fiction. Do you know a story will be short when you start it? Or do they sometimes surprise you?
JRG: Most of the time, I can already tell if it’s a flash fiction or a short story. Usually, it has to do with whether I feel the story’s magical realist conceit can be spread over multiple pages, or if it will collapse under its own weight. As I begin to discover my characters, this also plays a role. There are some characters that feel fully realized in a few short paragraphs and others that demand more stage presence. That characterization process occasionally surprises me, but I’ve usually got an idea when I start.
WJC: Throughout the variety of stories, I felt two strong themes recur: despair and transition. Some of your characters were offered routes out of despair, some were drawn deeper in. Both cases offer a kind of catharsis. In stories as brief as these, is catharsis the goal? What emotional state do you aim to leave your readers in?
JRG: Themes of despair and transition are definitely running through the collection. How we move through those themes is up for debate. For me personally, I do experience a version of catharsis in many stories, so that’s in the ballpark, but I hesitate to say catharsis is a specific goal. My ultimate goal is that readers feel something. The exact “something” is variable. People are complicated. They all bring their own experiences and preconceptions to a story. One reader’s happy ending might be another’s catastrophe. Whatever a reader feels at the end, I do hope they want to further explore and interrogate their emotional state. That curiosity and self-reflection is tantamount, but I’m not here to tell anyone what they should or shouldn’t feel by the end of a piece.
WJC: I’m curious to know more about your process as a writer. What does your workspace look like? Do you have a writing schedule?
JRG: I don’t follow any of the usual advice. My workspace is often a mess, and I know this leads to distractions, but it’s a mess regardless. I know that I write best with a consistent schedule, but this is also something that I don’t stick with unless I have a deadline coming up. Most often, I write in haphazard bursts. I’ll have a few weeks where I write during every spare hour of the day, and a few weeks later I barely get anything accomplished. I honestly think a more predictable schedule would do me good, but for whatever reason it’s been difficult to make it stick.
WJC: I know that you are an educator, in addition to your work as a writer and editor. How do these roles speak to one another, in your experience? And how do you find balance between these different aspects of your life?
JRG: The roles are in conversation with each other. Teaching creative writing helps me learn and grow as an author. There’s a certain magic to lesson planning. It forces me to stop, reflect on my own practice, and articulate the building blocks of story. That intentional, purposeful dissection of the writing process isn’t something I would do as often if I wasn’t teaching. It helps me better appreciate the craft that goes into each book on my syllabus. In terms of balance, it’s a constant struggle. If I have a heavier teaching load, my own creative practice takes a backseat. Balance is mostly about learning to say “no” and carve out time for my work. Early in my teaching career, I wanted to be on every committee, go to every conference, teach summer classes, and basically pour myself into the job. Now, I’m more cautious about taking on too much. It’s still a struggle, and I can’t say that I always strike a good balance, but I’m getting better at it.
WJC: I’ve not had the opportunity to read your prior published novella, Edge of the Known Bus Line, but from the blurb it seems to occupy a similar space of magical realism and social/political commentary. What connection do you find between those two aspects of your writing (genre and commentary)? What insight do we gain on our own reality by permitting dinosaurs to speak, dead brother ghosts to possess our characters, elves to live in elevator shafts, and vines to grow from old wounds?
JRG: I believe genre and commentary are deeply intertwined. I think about a classic like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. This book offers such a sensational and compelling way to explore hubris, what it means to be human, the ethics of playing god, and so much more. It’s a lot of heavy subject matter, but it doesn’t come off like a dry lecture or an esoteric novel of ideas. I’m captivated on every page, and the fantastic genre-defining conceit is a bit part of that. In my own fiction, I hope things like anthropomorphic dinosaurs or vines shooting out of a kneecap will invite readers into heavier topics without all the baggage. The conceit draws readers into the story with something sensational. From there, the reader is hooked, and they are more willing to explore topics or ideas that might normally make them disinterested or even uncomfortable.
WJC: I felt that a few of the stories in this collection (“Saw Act,” “Tuxedos and Evening Gowns,” “Brother and Not-Brother”) flirt with horror and the uncanny as a prominent element, even amidst other elements like humor. Is horror a genre you consciously engage with, or are interested in pursuing further?
JRG: I love horror movies and books—recently, I’ve been reading Mariana Enríquez and Agustina Bazterrica. My wife and I attend the Portland Horror Film festival every year, and Halloween is basically a month-long holiday in our household. My 2018 novella, Edge of the Known Bus Line, is squarely within the horror genre. As you suggest, The Museum of Future Mistakes isn’t pure horror, but it does flirt with the genre. Specifically, there’s an element of “body horror” in several pieces. As a queer, nonbinary person, I’m interested in interrogating identity and the body, and this exploration sometimes veers into a grotesque space—though I hope readers also find beautiful moments throughout the book. I think horror is a powerful yet often misunderstood genre. Horror helps people confront their deepest fears. We’re not often used to intentionally stepping into spaces that make us scared or uncomfortable, but a lot of personal growth comes from those opportunities.
WJC: This is your first short story collection, published by BOA Editions, and releasing on October 7th of 2025. What’s next for you? Any projects currently in the kiln?
JRG: I’m working on another short story collection. I recently did a residency at the Dzanc House where I worked on some revisions, and I’m hoping to begin sending out the manuscript by the end of the year. I’m also in the early phases of a possible novel—it’s still too early to predict if it’ll become something else, like a novella or a series of linked stories.
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