How do you come up with book titles?
I think my titles have come from exercises in overthinking: about song lyrics, story lines, things I overhear. For my first collection, Every Single Bone in My Brain, the title came from a lyric in the song “Lazaretto” by Jack White: “Every single bone in my brain is electric.” In the story, the central character has an elevated level of electricity flowing through his body, so he is literally, and at times lethally, shocking to people. I was drawn in by the metaphorical potential of someone who has an undeniable difference that is not necessarily evident to the eye. Since other stories in the collection work with versions of this same theme, the title helped the whole collection jell.
For my second book of short fiction, Consolation Miracles, the title came from a line in the story “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings,” by Gabriel García Márquez (the English translation, that is): “Those consolation miracles, which were more like mocking fun, had already ruined the angel’s reputation.” This line still cracks me up, and it inspired a story that enabled me to explore the humor and the loss that’s contained in the miracle of common consolation. I wrote most of the stories in the collection during the Covid years when many of us were searching for opportunities to laugh and to console.
For my forthcoming novel, Lucy Miles’ Photogenic Mind, the title started to sprout when I overheard someone say they had a “photogenic memory.” I think they meant to say photographic memory, but it made me wonder what a photogenic memory would be. Since “photogenic” is associated with photography and should be visible to someone else, I started to imagine what could be included in the story. The name Lucy is associated with light and illumination, so it seemed perfect for the extraordinary girl at the center of the novel who reveals striking images to those who are close to her, attracting incredible loyalty, indelible friendships, and extreme peril.
Why do you write?
For me, it has something to do with the idea that Flannery O’Connor expressed in her own unique way: “I have to write to discover what I am doing…. I don’t know so well what I think until I see what I say; then I have to say it again.” There’s such a close connection between writing and thinking, and I don’t believe I’d be able to access or understand ideas as clearly if I didn’t write. I also get a jolt of energy from the fact that writing is generative. There’s something magical about it. When we write, ideas emerge from the process. The misconception that we must know what we want to say before we sit down to say it prevents people from tapping into the magic. Sure, it’s nice to have an aim and maybe even some specific images, ideas, or expressions, but once those are down, the writing keeps going, and the writer is along for the ride!
Writing has also been an important way for me to release and examine anxieties, uncertainties, and mysteries—a way of making the intangible more concrete. I mentioned earlier that I’m drawn to writing/thinking about those senses of difference that are not always evident to the eye. In Lucy Miles, Lucy’s extraordinary difference functions in a similar way to the central character in “Every Single Bone in My Brain,” and similar to the internalized feelings of difference that many of us feel. Writing enables me to think through and try to express the internal and ethereal aspects of my life in ways that I (and hopefully others) can relate to and understand. And then, as Flannery O’Connor suggests, “I have to say it again.”
How do you start a novel/story?
My novel and my stories have started in different but overlapping ways. Some pieces begin with a voice, and if I’m lucky, an interesting opening line that compels me forward. I appreciate the way opening lines can set a mood. For a first-person narrative, the opening line is the first taste of the central character—the first taste of the voice and the personality who launches us into the story—and it influences the reading experience. Although Lucy Miles has alternating points-of-view, the opening line is delivered in the first-person by a 15-year-old boy named Pinky: “I would say I was destined for ridicule, but it’s more like I was set up.” In this case, Pinky establishes the humor, the vulnerability, the potential for resistance, and the human perspective that inform a lot of what takes place.
Other stories might begin with an idea. For example, I overheard someone say, “She scared the B’Jesus outta me,” and I wanted to know where the B’Jesus went and what it was. That exploration became a story that gave tangible, metaphorical life to the B’Jesus who lived in the crook of the protagonist’s back, until it was frightened into another space. And based on what I’ve already revealed (here and above), I seem to get a lot of ideas from eavesdropping.
What feeds your process? Do you listen to music? When the spark happens, do you run for the pen or the screen or do you just hope it is still there tomorrow?
When inspiration strikes, I try to channel, express, and document it as soon as I can. Since I commute long distances, I’m often yelling things into my phone. When I’m on stable ground, I send myself emails or scribble on pieces of scrap paper. Although I rarely listen to music when I’m writing, I do seek out live music and almost always get inspired.
A number of years ago, I saw Roy Hargrove and his band play at a jazz club in Boston, and he blew me away. Throughout the show, I was scribbling feverishly on a folded piece of paper, and between songs, I was whistling and whooping and all the rest (yes, I was that guy). After the show, someone approached me and asked how I could possibly write an unbiased review when I was so clearly a fan. I didn’t understand what she was saying at first. When I told her that I wasn’t reviewing the show, she said “Oh,” and walked away. I wish I had shown her the sweaty scraps of paper in my pocket with all my scribblings about a person with lethal levels of electricity flowing through his body and a girl with a photogenic mind. We might have had a different conversation.
Where do your ideas come from for narratives?
The process really varies for me. There are times when I get a line in my head, and I find myself drawn in by the voice. Other times, it’s an image or a concept. A few years ago, I walked into a supermarket and saw someone riffling through a bin of Cortland apples, looking frustrated as he inspected several different options, putting each one back in the bin. As I was walking past, I imagined this voice saying: “Cortland’s a bullshit apple.” I’m glad I didn’t repeat it out loud, but I’m grateful that it launched a story called “Soiling the Tree of Knowledge,” which was published a few years ago.
The first story in Consolation Miracles is called “When the Books Turned into Butterflies.” I had seen one of my daughters drawing a picture of a book with wings and the story took flight from there, so to speak. In this case, I started thinking about how we are transported when we read, and this seemed like an opportunity to portray that in a more physical sense while illustrating truthful aspects of the human relationship with books. Other stories, as mentioned earlier, have been inspired by song lyrics or story lines, and Lucy Miles was really launched by the curious idea of a photogenic memory/mind.
In each case, a voice or an image or an idea got my mind rolling. Once I put something on the page, I have to let the process play out, so I can learn more about the person behind the voice or the individuals who are affected by the idea; I try to visualize the setting and understand what characters might want and how/why they might be compelled to act. In other words, the process allows the characters and circumstances to emerge, and the more clearly I can see and understand the characters, the easier it is to determine the motivations/desires, interactions, settings, and circumstances. To pull it way back and use a different metaphor, the pebble can be dropped almost anywhere in the waters of the imagination, and the writer’s job is to follow the rings as they spread. (I’m pretty sure that’s a flawed metaphor, but it’s something like that.)
Has your education helped you become a better writer?
Both the short and long answers are yes, absolutely, but I learned different things at different times. Here’s the quick and dirty overview. As an undergraduate, I was inspired by an innovative writer and professor, Mary Caponegro, who exposed us to a lot of innovative fiction and encouraged us to write experimental stories of our own. So, I started off lusting after stories and ideas that struck me as wild—my nightstand stacked with books by Jorge Luis Borges, Robert Coover, Jeanette Winterson, Ana Castillo, and many others—but since I couldn’t do what they were doing, I did what I thought was conceptually cool, but was likely a little trite (a lot of characters-in-search-of-their-authors type of stuff). I still love a lot of that, but I didn’t have the writing chops to make these more than just drawn-out deep thoughts.
When I went back to school for my MFA, I was exposed to so many writers and styles that I started to develop strategies for embodying my conceptual stories with some humanity. When I started working toward my PhD, I had to put the creative writing aside for a few years so I could think about fiction in the context of history and culture and identity. That’s when my understanding of what I was trying to do and what I could do as a writer began to deepen. I was studying some of my original literary heroes alongside newer writers who seemed to be coming from places I could recognize and relate to more. I also began to understand more about myself—my particular background and cultural identity—and more about the craft of fiction. During that time, I realized how I might marry my fanciful concepts with characters I recognized and cared about. It was quite a revelation!
Who are your literary influences?
Over the years, there have been many, and I know I’ve shared a few, but here are a few more: Kevin Wilson’s quirky humanity and ability to stretch the boundaries of realism without compromising belief or investment is amazing to me. Jess Walter’s talent for writing funny, rich novels, including literary mysteries where the characters are fully fleshed out and the plots are not heading predictably toward an absolute resolution. Aimee Bender and Karen Russell both have the ability to make the most extraordinary worlds and individuals seem so familiar and so vital, enabling readers to examine deeper human realities, while also creating wildly entertaining books. Nicole Kraus and Nathan Englander have helped me access and mine my own cultural identity, and they both can shift between experimental storylines and narratives that are slightly more traditionally structured, grounded in realistic and deeply personal perspectives.
And wrapping up with narratives that feature personal perspectives, James Baldwin has blown me away at different times and through different genres. His essays are so personal and so powerful and unflinchingly honest, and they often contain stories that help illustrate and illuminate his ideas. Similarly, his fiction is so probing and specific and personalized that it can feel as if you’re hearing or witnessing something happening in that moment. It truly can transport, and whether it’s fiction or nonfiction, Baldwin always seems to be conveying the honest truth.
What’s next for you?
Thanks for asking and for this wonderful opportunity—I’ve really enjoyed the process! I recently completed a novel-in-stories, currently titled Across the Crescent-Shaped Depression, and I’m hoping it finds its way into the wider world. The book is set in and around the Wyoming Valley of northeastern Pennsylvania (NePA), where I was raised. This novel-in-stories has also inspired a deeper interest in this area. I started working on another novel set in Wilkes-Barre, PA. This one takes place in 1972 (the year I was born), before, during, and after the Susquehanna River flooded Wilkes-Barre (including the apartment where my parents lived with my older brother and me). I spent a large portion of my early literary life writing about places like New York and San Francisco and Boston—places I thought were sexier settings to write about—but I was essentially denying the place that helped to shape me (for better or worse). I think the time has finally come to change that.
AARON TILLMAN’S BIO:
Aaron Tillman is Associate Director of the Writing Program at UMass Amherst. His novel, Lucy Miles’ Photogenic Mind, is forthcoming from Regal House Publishing (Nov. 17, 2026). He is the author of two short story collections, Consolation Miracles (2022) and Every Single Bone in My Brain (2017), and a book of critical nonfiction, Magical American Jew (2018). He received the Gival Press Short Story Award, the John Gardner Memorial Prize in Fiction from Harpur Palate, a Short Story Award for New Writers from Glimmer Train Stories, and his work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His stories have appeared in Mississippi Review, Pembroke Magazine, Narrative Magazine, upstreet, Sou’wester, and elsewhere. He has recorded stories for radio broadcast, and his essays and reviews have appeared in The Writer’s Chronicle, Colorado Review, Studies in American Humor, Symbolism, The CEA Critic, and The Intersection of Fantasy and Native America. He can be found online at aarontillmanfiction.com
