‘Finding a sense of clarity’

Sheung-King
Interviewed by Jessica Poon in 2024 via email

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I like to think Sheung-King and I have a lot in common. We are both Chinese Canadians who were born in Vancouver and we are both alumni of the University of Guelph’s Creative Writing MFA. The similarities, tragically, end there.

Sheung-King is exceedingly polite, humble about his success, and has commendable style—it’s not gaudy, but it’s not distressingly normcore either. He is part of the one percent of people who would recognize the Proenza Schouler PS1 bag. He reminds me a bit of my high school biology teacher, who was once given a bike by his students—widely beloved, but seemingly baffled as to why. Sheung-King recently won the Atwood Gibson Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize for his second novel, Batshit Seven. 

As for me, I am a rude little girl who is wildly insecure and unwarrantedly arrogant at the same time, whose CV is far from illustrious. In other words, it would be entirely reasonable for me to detest Sheung-King and spontaneously explode from envy. 

Sheung-King, however, makes hating him cosmically impossible. And I am rather good at hating people. The thing is, Sheung-King is too damn polite and too damn talented for me to hate. In fact, Sheung-King’s success strengthens my delusion that I am destined for great things. (Yes, you can blame him for that).

In December 2020, many people were afraid to breathe around other people. Whether you wore a mask or not signified the state of your soul—if you had one at all. Everything was contentious, doomed-feeling, and perilous. America was orange-hued, which meant the rest of the world was also orange. People bought dogs they would later abandon, gave middle names to their sourdough starters, deserted longtime partners, and projected their loveless lives onto money plants with an even lower return than cryptocurrency.

And around this time, I read—and reviewed—Sheung-King’s debut novel, You Are Eating an Orange. You Are Naked. I was floored. I was giddy and incredulous such a thing existed. My reading experience of that book was more potent than my ill-advised consumption of a weed cookie when I was seventeen and, importantly, far better. His novel was accessible and esoteric, zany yet also normal, and sometimes felt like an eloquent blog about love feeling like a desirable catastrophe. It was a book that made it clear that however reasonably cynical one might be about the marketplace of art, it was still possible for idiosyncratic peculiarity to break through the publishing gatekeepers. 

I became fixated on the characters—they were real to me—and I sent Sheung-King an e-mail asking about the significance of the protagonist’s love interest as a regular wearer of glasses who also wears contact lenses. I probably also asked if the contacts were daily disposables or if they had toric lenses—that’s the kind of thing that keeps me up at night. 

For a long time, glasses—especially in Hollywood—were treated as debilitatingly unattractive, a leprosy of the eyes that had to be removed to reveal the Always Hot Already leading lady. A librarian fetish could be an exception, but only if the librarian was hot. In You Are Eating an Orange. You Are Naked., the protagonist’s love interest possesses the kind of beauty that seemingly causes car accidents. I never pictured her wearing glasses. But she does! It was the book equivalent of Marilyn Monroe in How to Marry a Millionaire.

I did not receive a response to my e-mail. I accepted that I must have sounded like the human embodiment of rabies. Who would reply to rabies? 

I wrote a review of the book—the longest one I have ever written—and Sheung-King thanked me for being such a close reader, i.e., openly unhinged. He’d missed the original e-mail I had sent and graciously answered my doggedly specific questions about glasses and contact lenses:

He wrote:

The protagonist’s lover does wear glasses, especially when she’s at home. I’m also aware that my descriptions of the physical appearances of characters in Orange might not be the most detailed. I was trying to keep physical descriptions simple. The chapter you referenced, I Am The One Who Waits, is one where nothing much happens (it’s about waiting after all); the two characters are just wandering around in an apartment all morning, not knowing what to do so early. Perhaps, because of that, there’s more attention paid to changes in physical appearances in that chapter. And perhaps because the two have time on their hands, ‘you’ decide to put on contacts that day. I did not, however, put much thought into what kind of contact lenses she wears. I apologize if my answer is underwhelming.

When people are kind to me, I like to test if it is a fluke. In the summer of 2021, I was desperate to find a dog-friendly, affordable place to rent in Toronto without having any provable income and without a guarantor. Believe me when I say such a quest is the literal definition of hell. I became ill with neediness and I wanted to infect everyone with it. I asked anyone I had ever so much as smiled at, to help me. Including Sheung-King. To my surprise, Sheung-King immediately agreed he would try to help and subsequently put me in touch with his teaching assistant at the time, Felix. That didn’t work out, but Felix and I became friends. 

As the years have gone by, Sheung-King and I have sporadically discussed autofiction, Rachel Cusk, Andrea Long Chu, Miranda July, Maggie Nelson, Sheila Heti, and the reboot of Gossip Girl, and agreed that watching rich white people is a shared sick hobby of ours. 

One day we’ll get drunk with Felix, become reverently philosophical about Portuguese versus Hong Kong egg tarts, and take a lot of poorly lit photos that seem artistic. We will be the Three Chinese Musketeers. We will remember very little of it. 

But, until then, here’s an interview I conducted via e-mail after Sheung-King won the Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize.

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[Q1] First of all, major congratulations and kudos on winning the Atwood Gibson Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize for Batshit Seven! I don’t want to sound like that sports interviewer asking a trite question like “How does it feel to win?” But, honestly, how does it feel to be awarded this prize?

[A1] It was really a surprise. I had read Canisia Lubrin’s Code Noir when it first came out and, when the shortlist was announced, I read the other three books on the shortlist. As I mentioned in my speech, all of them were phenomenal. I went in, not expecting anything, just happy to be nominated alongside these authors and at the event with my friends.

I’m glad my friends made sure I wrote a speech, which I did that morning, in the hotel lounge, surrounded by other writers who were attending the events. I then shoved the speech deep into my pocket, not expecting I would need to use it.

The next morning, after winning the award, I went to Jimmy’s Coffee. I used to go there often to work when I still lived in Toronto. I drank coffee alone, in the park across from the hotel. The sky was clear. I was happy. Then, I got on a plane and flew to Hong Kong and then to Seoul for my next project.

[Q2] I feel that you evoke setting in a way that makes setting seem like a character, without resorting to oppressively lengthy or lyrical descriptions of unnecessary crap. I used to think I hated setting, until I realized what I hated were lengthy descriptions about luscious fields. You’ve written about Hong Kong, Toronto, Macau, and Prague. I’m wondering, given that you were born in Vancouver, do you have any plans on a short story or a novel set in Vancouver? Does setting come naturally to you, or was this something you intentionally became skilled at rendering?

[A2] I would love to write about Vancouver. I am working on a new project about the diasporic experiences of Hong Kongers elsewhere. Many moved to Vancouver after 2019. Vancouver, where I was born and where many of my friends and family are, will definitely be a part of my work moving forward.

For me, setting is about how I personally feel when I am in a place. I start from there and decide what to describe after. Perhaps because of that, my descriptions of place do feel short.

[Q3] Both your novels have off-beat titles that I’d describe as catchy. How do you come up with these titles? “You are eating an orange. You are naked” comes from dialogue spoken by a character, but I’m wondering about the origins of Batshit Seven and what it means. 

[A3] I enjoy coming up with interesting titles, titles that make the book feel like it doesn’t take itself too seriously. The title Batshit Seven came very early in the writing process. I had a chapter titled Batshit Seven. The number seven refers to the seventh month of the year, July, and the first of July marks the transfer of Hong Kong from the United Kingdom to China. Hong Kong 1 July marches were also held annually from the day of the handover in 1997. Seven in Cantonese is also slang for ‘penis,’ and Batshit Seven can be translated to 黐㲺綫, which can mean ‘losing your fucking mind,’ which my main character Glue does. He goes batshit.

[Q4] Batshit Seven includes QR codes throughout. I noticed that two of them relate to McDonald’s. Could you talk about the decision to include not one, but two QR codes linking to McDonald’s, and, if you feel like it, your own relationship to McDonald’s and your intention in the inclusion of QR codes?

[A4] Have you seen the film Comrades: Almost a Love Story (1996)? In the film, two people from Mainland China move to Hong Kong in search of a better future. They meet at McDonald’s and fall in love. In the film, they mention that there is no McDonald’s in Mainland China. It’s a symbol of Hong Kong’s international status back then. There is also a Murakami story that I enjoy a lot, The Second Bakery Attack, where a couple finds themselves awake in the middle of the night, very hungry, and proceed to rob a McDonald’s. The story ends with them eating hamburgers in a parking lot, listening to the American army’s radio station.

I personally do not eat much at McDonald’s. 

[Interviewer note: I have not seen either of the films that Sheung-King mentions, but I was reminded of Yi Yi, perhaps Edward Yang’s most well-known film. Yi Yi features a scene of a young child not eating much at a wedding, which jump cuts to him happily eating at McDonald’s with his father, whose formal attire is at odds with the informality of McDonald’s].

[Q5] One of the QR codes in Batshit Seven leads to this playlist of Korean hip hop/rap. One YouTube comment says: “this makes me feel like I can pass my math exam tomorrow”. Did you listen to this playlist while you wrote Batshit Seven? What made you include this one in particular? Do you listen to music when you write, or do you require silence? Something in between?

[A5] I did not listen to his playlist when I wrote Batshit. I did, however, listen to the playlist when I took a shower, just like what Glue did in the novel. Thank you so much for pointing out the YouTube comments. Those comments are one of the reasons why I chose to include that playlist. I think about the headspace Glue was in when he listened to the playlist. He needed something to hype himself up. K-pop was his solution.

I personally do not listen to music when I write but will listen to classical or piano music before I write, just like how Glue uses K-pop to hype himself up. Sakamoto Ryūichi helps me get ready to write.

[Q6] Batshit Seven is, on the one hand, an effortless read that can be finished in one sitting. On the other hand, the novel isn’t “mere” entertainment; there are so many layers to this novel, which totally merits rereading. As the QR codes demonstrate, there are also varying levels of commitment a reader can choose to take on, or not. I don’t feel that ignoring the QR codes will deprive an impatient reader, but I do think that paying attention to them definitely adds something and brings the reader closer to the mindset of Glue, the protagonist. Did you have an “ideal” reader response in mind when you included QR codes?

[A6] When I see a QR code in a place where I do not expect to see one, I feel compelled to scan it. Once, I remember, I was in Hong Kong, hanging out on the rooftop of a friend’s house, and there was an object under the table. No one knew what it was, but it had a QR code attached to it, so we scanned it to find out. I don’t remember what that object was anymore, but I remember a friend saying, “More objects should have QR codes.”

[Q7] I promise this will be the only interactive activity I impose on you, but I felt inspired to make a QR code. My request is that you scan the QR code, and you can either tell me what’s on your mind as you’re going through this process, or alternatively, just do a freewrite exercise.

[A7] I have to first apologize. I started writing my response a little too late. By the time I got to this, the code had expired and I had to email you for a new one. I learned right away, when I proposed to my editor that we include QR codes in the book, that QR codes expire, which was a problem for some time. But in the end, I decided to host all the codes on my personal website. I’m not sure what else I can do with those links, now available on my website, but moving forward, now that I have created QR codes that will not expire so long as my website is still up, can I one day play with the idea of changing the purpose of the QR codes in the book? I wonder what that will mean, for a book’s content to change even after its publication.

[Interviewer note: The first QR code that expired was a link to Bryce Dessner’s “Weetabix,” which was featured in the film, We Live in Time, starring the charming Andrew Garfield and Florence Pugh. I have a lot of mixed, occasionally inflammatory feelings about this movie that, unfortunately, do not belong in this interview. The score for the film, however, is beautiful. The second QR code that also expired was a link to a poem titled “EVERYONE I HAVE EVER KISSED THINKS ABOUT ME ALL OF THE TIME AND IS IN LOVE WITH ME,” written by Hilary Kaufman for the Taco Bell Quarterly].

[Q8] I’ve noticed an affinity for you using the present tense, both in your fiction and in a lot of contemporary writing. For you, what is the appeal of the present tense, and how do you feel about the past tense?

[A8] I write a lot about Hong Kong, and Hong Kong is, because it ‘modernized’ before the mainland, described by some academics as being in the “future perfect tense.” It has 50 years where it has its own government, until the rest of China “catches up.” Its future is, because of this, set. When writing about a place where the future is set, the present feels precious.

[Q9] I commend you for not shying away from the depiction of, shall we say, unglamorous sex in Batshit Seven. In fact, there are a couple of scenes that actually remind me of Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s character in the film, Happiness. Is there anything you have to do to prepare to write for a sex scene? For instance, do you need to imagine everyone you know is dead, or do you not require such imaginary pyrotechnics? Does it feel the same as writing about anything? And, are there authors in particular, whose sex writing you find particularly unique and/or inspiring?

[A9] Writing those unglamorous sex scenes felt quite natural to me. I’m not sure why. I cannot think of any authors whose sex scenes I found particularly inspiring either. 

[Q10] I went digging in my e-mails and you once wrote that “I would say my mindset is the same for both Orange and Batshit. I just did what I thought would be interesting without worrying too much about how it would fit in anywhere.” I think this approach sounds a lot like “write first, edit later.” I don’t know if you would agree with this assessment, but based on what you say about focusing on what’s interesting without worrying about how it fits, I’m wondering, how did you approach structure with both of your novels?

[A10] I create the pieces first, based on what I find interesting. It might be a scene, a place, a line, or sometimes, a piece might come in the form of an entire chapter. I then find the connections between these pieces and write things that connect them. Afterwards, now that there is a logic to everything I have written, I order it and try to find the right pace for the story. Which is why all my sections are numbered. It makes sequencing easier.

[Q11] What does your revision process look like? At what point do you permit another person to read a draft?

[A11] Whenever I’m stuck, I have a writing group that I attend bi-weekly with some of the writers I met during my MFA. They’re always helpful and supportive. I also am lucky enough to have a great editor, Deborah Sun de la Cruz. I trust her feedback and suggestions. She is also amazing at giving me feedback without really telling me what to do, which allows me to think of creative solutions to some of the problems she points out. I reach out whenever I feel like I need help or when I feel stuck.

[Q12] Brandon Taylor wrote the following in his book review of Beautiful World, Where Are You? by Sally Rooney for the New York Times:

Rooney’s characters chatter about the pointlessness of feeling that the world is too far gone to do anything about even as they seem to agree that our problems tower high above our heads.
In my less charitable moments, it felt as though we’ve reached a point in our culture where the pinnacle of moral rigour in the novel form is an overwhelmed white woman in a major urban center sighing and having a thought about the warming planet or the existence of refugees.

The character of Glue, in Batshit Seven, has interesting thoughts about his evolution—or de-evolution—as a politically conscientious, presumably leftist person, especially in relation to his setting, whether it’s Toronto or Hong Kong. I’m wondering whether you feel contemporary novels have a moral obligation to, somehow demand actionable change—rather than merely having characters, relatively privileged and consistently unhappy, muse about it and go on thinking about heartbreak. Or do you think, perhaps, that we can’t really expect all that much from a book, and it’s a miracle anyone reads them at all? Or something in between, or something altogether?

[A12] To me, writing, even when it features someone like Glue, who becomes increasingly disrespected as the novel progresses, is still about finding a sense of clarity in the times we live. There exists a kind of trust that the writer has with their readers. I trust that no one would want to be like Glue. We read about Glue so that we don’t have to be like him. 

One of Batshit Seven’s main influences is the novels by Kenzaburō Ōe. Ōe’s characters descend. They commit acts of violence. We follow their stories up to that point. We understand how they were manipulated or pressured to pursue these acts. 

Another example I can think of is the writings of Han Kang. She positions the reader in the middle. In The Vegetarian, we have the husband’s point of view of his wife becoming a vegetarian. We have his internal monologue. We understand that he is self-aware of his own insecurities. When the wife narrates, it is in stream of consciousness, deeply introspective and poignant. There is never an objective point of view. The reader is left in between these subjectivities. We make a moral judgment regarding the situation.

[Q13] What writing advice would you give to aspiring writers? When Kyo Maclear was your thesis supervisor during your MFA at the University of Guelph, what advice of hers did you find most useful? 

[A13] One of the best pieces of advice Kyo had was to tell me to go away for a bit before returning to the writing. I remember towards the end of my thesis, which was my first novel, You are Eating an Orange. You are Naked. I received a small grant. I was contemplating visiting Prague, which I’d never been to, and Kyo encouraged me to do so. After my visit, I wrote the last two chapters of Orange. I agree with her that sometimes it is good to take breaks, to step away from your writing to gain new momentum.

[Q14] When do you do book readings, how do you decide which parts to read out loud? What do you write when you sign people’s books?

[A14] I try to do as many readings as possible. I’ve been doing some readings in Hong Kong but most readings I’ve done for Batshit, I did online. When I sign books, especially for my friends, and if time allows, I play a game. We draw three shapes that overlap and we take turns to fill in the spaces with words. It’s like a small visual poem that we co-write. Here are some recent examples.

[Q15] I’m going to commit the cardinal sin of being self-centred in this interview, but do you remember how we [virtually] met, and if so, would you mind retelling it for readers? Apart from being self-centred, I want to see what, if any, discrepancies there are in our memories, as I believe that inaccurate memories are a focal point of nostalgia, which is something you recently explored in a mixed media exhibition with multidisciplinary artist, JeeMin Kim. In both your novels, I’m wondering how, if at all, nostalgia played a role for your characters, or in your inspiration?

[A15] I believe it was through email. You were thinking of applying for the MFA and we started talking. And then you wrote that piece about Orange for the British Columbia Review. And we started talking about writing. Your dog Wolfy was posing with the book. I would love to know your version of the story as well!

In displacement, nostalgia is inevitable. Nostalgia is also not very helpful. My characters often have a difficult relationship with nostalgia. In Orange, my characters rely on stories from the past, folktales, to communicate with each other. This reliance on stories from the past becomes an important component in their story. It is also a reason why their relationship is unable to move forward. 

In Batshit, Glue knows that “nostalgia is a lie” but is struggling to move on from the past when he returns to Hong Kong in 2019. He remembers his ideals from when he was a graduate school student in Canada. What he is nostalgic for is the time when he had ideals—“lost futures,” to borrow a term from Mark Fisher.

Recently, our project, Displaced Nostalgia, which is also the name of our duo, JeeMin built a structure, a sandbox made out of bricks, and she installed a light that shines from the ceiling onto the sand that represents time. When we feel that an hour has passed, she moves the light. Each time the light moves, I write something on an overhead projector on the topic of nostalgia.

[Interviewer note: I agree with Sheung-King’s recollection of how we virtually met; more details are written about in the introduction for this interview.]

[Q16] Recently, you mentioned reading My Death by Lisa Tuttle. Could you elaborate on what you enjoyed about that novella, and perhaps name some other books that you have enjoyed greatly in the past, and why?

[A16] Orange is often considered to have autofiction components. I am also interested in autofiction. I enjoy My Death by Lisa Tuttle because of how it plays with and explores how writing about someone’s life can, in some way, shape their life.

One of my favorite books in recent years is A Personal Matter by Kenzaburō Ōe. It’s a story about a young part-time college lecturer. His partner is giving birth and he finds out that his son has brain herniation. He contemplates ending the newborn child’s life but ultimately decides not to. The decision to not end the child’s life comes abruptly. After he had already left the child to die, he meets a childhood friend of his, someone he had abandoned with American soldiers when they were young.

[Q17] In terms of a food/drink pairing, what do you recommend pairing with You Are Eating an Orange. You Are Naked. and Batshit Seven respectively?

[A17] Orange with dim sum and Batshit with a warm bowl of noodles and a beer. 

[Q18] I’m stealing a question from the New York Times. Which three authors, dead or alive, are you inviting to a dinner party? 

[A18] Alejandro Zambra, Miranda July, and David Henry Hwang. I have no idea what they will talk about, but I feel like we’ll laugh a lot.

Originally from East Vancouver, Jessica Poon is a writer, former line cook, and pianist of dubious merit who recently returned to BC after completing a MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Guelph. [Editor’s note: Jessica Poon has reviewed books by Pat Dobie, Giana Darling, Umar Turaki, Katrina Kwan, Jane Boon, Terese Svoboda, Maia Caron, Wendy H. Wong, Andromeda Romano-Lax, Sarah Leipciger, Katrina Kwan, Shelley Wood, Richard Kelly Kemick, Elisabeth Eaves, Rajinderpal S. Pal, Keziah Weir, Amber Cowie, Robyn Harding, Roz Nay, Anne Fleming, Miriam Lacroix, Taslim Burkowicz, Sam Wiebe, Amy Mattes, Louis Druehl, Sheung-King, Loghan Paylor, Lisa Moore (ed.), Sandra Kelly, and Robyn Harding for BCR]

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The British Columbia Review

Interim Editors, 2023-25: Trevor Marc Hughes (non-fiction), Brett Josef Grubisic (fiction and poetry)
Publisher: Richard Mackie

Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an online book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.

“Only connect.” – E.M. Forster