Author Chelsea Sutton’s Krackle’s Last Movie, out now from Split/Lip Press, is one monster of a novella – a post-modern Prometheus, if you will (you don’t have to).
The book itself is a patchwork of found footage, oral history, and the inner thoughts of our reluctant protagonist, Harper. It’s the story of a mentor gone missing, a tragic death onstage, and interviews with “real-life” monsters whose lives glance, sometimes violently, off the human world. As she splices, rewinds, and reconstructs Krackle’s decades of encounters with werewolves, mermaids, invisible dancers, and desert sea monsters, Harper finds herself piecing together truths behind her own life secrets, as well as those that led to both Krackle’s disappearance and the Great Merlan’s last trick.
Chelsea sat down with Vol. 1 Brooklyn to discuss how a short story can evolve into a living – albeit pieced-together – thing; how structural decisions informed Harper’s world-weary voice, and how the act of assembling a film can itself be an act of subversion, culpability, and, maybe, redemption.
I had no idea what to expect when I first got the ARC for Krackle’s Last Movie. That cover practically leapt out of my inbox though. What I loved about the book once I started reading is how it didn’t let me stay skeptical. The immediate action and the mystique of the plot – the video and audio logs, the film-editing angle – all of it lured me into the main character, Harper’s, plight quite quickly, her search for her lost mentor Minerva Krackle. What made you decide to structure the book this way?
I actually went back and forth on whether the novella should be third person or first person, and I ended up choosing close first person. This allowed me to portray what it feels like on paper – not an actual movie – for [the main character] Harper to attempt to edit a film, and, while doing so, contemplate the mystery of her own identity and role. The editing process became integral to her story and her various thoughts. I also appreciate structural complexity, like in books such as House of Leaves.
So, did you storyboard Krackle’s Last Movie?
Well, it’s interesting because when I first started writing the story, I didn’t know it was a novella. It was a short story I wrote for a Tin House workshop. At that time, it was a 6,000-word short story – the longest I had ever written. I’d been through a period where I felt anything over 3,000 words was overstaying its welcome. I received good workshop feedback, but the general feeling was it needed more space. So, in grad school, I expanded it into a novelette. Even then, it felt like there was more to tell. I wrote the origin story for the magician character before further expanding it into a novella, which provided more backstory and timeline notes. Realizing Krackle needed more space to truly develop, I created a full timeline, starting with the earliest scene in 1963 when Krackle was 16. Then I decided on 2019 for the present moment, mostly because I didn’t want to add–
COVID–
–yes, the pandemic. I mean, that would just introduce yet another thing to deal with in the world.
Right.
We don’t need that. So, once I had that timeline, I could then map out the linear progression of events: how monster encounters occurred, when major events happened; and I’d track the magical elements, which are all interconnected, and everyone’s age. I had to write all of that down…
I can’t imagine why–
…then, when deciding on section breaks, mostly based on emotional beats or plot points, I could refer to that timeline to ensure consistency.
I want to touch on your characters for a moment. The mermaids, Dr. Danger, Minerva – they all have these enigmatic vibes that feel, in a weird way, familiar. Given the complex structure of your novella – which, for brevity, I’ll liken to “found footage” – and this fantastical world full of diverse characters, how do you maintain momentum while constantly cycling through Harper’s plight and all these elements?
I will say a friend who blurbed the book asked a similar question, which was basically “why did you do this?” My answer to her was, “I get bored easily.”
But what a fascinating way to get bored.
Right! My friend was like, “Oh, okay, that’s fair.”
So when you were bored and created these particular characters, did you base them on real people you know, or are they composites or archetypes you’re already familiar with?
Well, I think the familiar creatures help because most of us have some shorthand for mermaids or Frankenstein. Early on, I had a list of monster tropes I wanted to include. My Frankenstein creature, for instance, wasn’t the traditional one, but more like a Las Vegas showgirl. I consciously or unconsciously sought thematic or emotional connections for each monster that would translate to the real world. The idea of someone created from body parts, whose body is used or owned in some way, provided an easy parallel to her experience. The one I’m most proud of is the invisible dancer. She faces a particular obstacle: how to create art with her body when no one can see it.
That scene, where she uses dust to reveal her presence to Minerva, is brilliant.
Many of those scenes are super short. Initially, they were very quick, just “dropping in, dropping out” scenes that felt like prose poems in their early drafts. They’ve become a bit longer with edits. The challenge was how much information to pack into a small space for maximum impact. The werewolf scene, for example, didn’t need to be three chapters long; it needed to be concise.
It was just that. And so vulnerable.
I’m not interested in monster characters that are just tropes, completely good, or completely evil; that’s uninteresting. My underlying mission when writing this was to humanize the monsters. Years ago, I gave myself a prompt to write stories about monsters, but flip it so that the perceived monstrosity was turned around, often revealing humans as the truly monstrous. This isn’t a unique thought, but it helped me develop many stories. Entering Krackle, I asked myself: How can I make the monsters human? And how can I make the humans a little more monstrous? I consider the real monsters to be the people with guns and those on talk shows.
Did the story originate with Minerva or Harper?
It started with Minerva.
[smugly, for some reason] That’s what I thought.
I feel like other writers have this experience: sometimes, when I say it aloud, it sounds crazy, but my main characters often reveal themselves slowly. I didn’t know Harper had wings or was a monster herself until I reached the end of the very first short story. And then I realized, “oh, it would have been nice to know this earlier.” She’s like a closed-off, secretive person who, for safety, forces me to be secretive. Even though I’m creating her, I had to deal with her as if she were real and had to earn her trust to reveal things like, “Oh, by the way, I have this thing I have to do every week to survive.” Once I understood that, Harper became the story’s true focus, not Minerva. I didn’t fully grasp this until the short story was complete, or perhaps halfway through the novelette stage. Most of the editing and new scenes I wrote when expanding it into a novella were about Harper. I realized, “I actually do need to write these scenes.”
Given Harper’s heartbreaking backstory, what was the process like developing it and adding her wings during the rewrite?
The wings came first, and then I realized this huge physical trait couldn’t be hidden under a jacket; they’d have to be cut off. This act wasn’t something she developed as an adult; it was something she’d been doing since childhood, instructed by someone, likely those who raised her. That was new information for me as I wrote and edited for Split/Lip.
I find writing fiction intriguing, as I primarily write memoir and rarely fiction unless professionally required. I’m curious about how your characters, especially unique ones like Dr. Danger – whose aloof, almost ‘asshole’ demeanor I find compelling – came to life for you, particularly through the editing process. Where did the idea for his corset and top hat originate?
He emerged from a list of monsters I had, including “evil villain or sidekick.” He’s different from universal monsters like mummies or werewolves. In my mind, his place in the community is somewhat ambiguous; he can pass, unlike others with tentacles or fins who cannot. Harper also passes, but at a greater sacrifice. But he’s just really bad; he’s not a good villain.
He has his redeeming moments, assisting Harper in her struggles.
Oh, absolutely. I think he has a good heart, but he’s terrible at his job.
He is pretty bad at it.
Just awful.