Two teenage girls looking for independence in a pack of cigarettes; a strained father-daughter relationship; waitressing gigs and sex work out of spa houses. The short stories in Téa Mutonji’s stunning debut collection Shut Up You’re Pretty are snapshots of a young woman finding her place in a new country, navigating her family’s Congolese traditions, and learning what it means to belong.
Shut Up You’re Pretty is the first title from writer-musician Vivek Shraya’s VS. Books imprint with Arsenal Pulp Press. Created in 2017, VS. Books publishes work by writers who identify as Indigenous, Black, and people of colour in Canada between the ages of 18 and 24. In addition to a publishing contract for their debut book, Vivek also offers mentorship to these emerging writers.
Written in an understated, sharply observant style, Téa’s stories are an inquiry into femininity, identity, and trauma.
What is it about the short story form that appeals to you?
Téa: Because I studied creative writing – and the short story is a more accessible form to teach – I think the appeal was originally a matter of comfort. I had gotten used to writing 2,000 words with such ease – I didn’t think I could write anything else. On a personal level, short stories were also the only form of writing I could dedicate time to. I could read a short story and feel complete, but still have enough time left in my day to also be part of the world outside of literature. Novels always took too much from me. And emotionally speaking, poetry had the potential of completely ruining my day. As a reader, short stories felt safe. As a writer, I learned that it’s a lot more intricate and complicated than it seems. The real appeal, and perhaps even challenge, was finding a way to make everything fit like a poem but resonate like a novel. The people who do it well are crazy magicians.
You’re also a poet – how do you think your poetry practice influences your short stories?
I’m very simple with my poetry. I’m not huge on common devices or adjectives. I always feel like I’m stripping words apart when I’m writing poetry and I tried to do that with prose. Instead, I felt I ended up being more observant than I intended to. But it allowed me to develop a voice that was specific to these characters and divorced from my own self – which is something I don’t necessarily do in poetry. In a way, in my effort to mimic my own poetic voice I actually created almost like a parody of myself with my protagonist.
This collection is a really powerful meditation on adolescence, sexuality, and belonging. Why was it important to you that these stories take place during this particular moment in the narrator’s life?
“What I wanted to do with this collection was to investigate women’s relationships that go beyond the superficial – that
are deep with love and pain and acceptance.”
I think those are the defining periods that create a person’s personality. Granted, I’ve only lived up to 25 so I cannot confirm for sure. But a lot of my understanding of the world (and most my friends seem to agree) have been shaped and influenced by my experiences as an adolescent – specifically how I fit in the world based on my sexuality and gender. There’s also a framework in everyday culture that when we think of “the life of a woman,” we’re zooming in on her twenties, as though there isn’t life after that. Afterward, she’s no longer just “a woman,” she’s a mother, or a wife, or a widow.
How did you arrive at this title for the collection, and what does it mean to you?
We had a long list of titles that didn’t seem to fit the overarching narrative of the collection and as we got closer to decision day, I complained about being titleless to my friend. We were in the bathroom of our workplace, where we both work as waitresses, and she angrily turned around and said, “shut up, you’re pretty, [you’ll figure it out].” It was such a weird thing to be told, and such a weird concept: any fears, anxiety, drama I may have had held less value because I look a certain way. I later played with this idea for one of the titleless stories I had been working on. And then the collection became Shut Up, and then the story in question followed suit. It did feel like a team effort though. Vivek loved it when I jokingly suggested it. The more and more I began to think of how that title could complement every other story in the collection, the surer I became of it.
Reading through your stories, food and drink play an important role in marking time and space – the scent of curry and feta in “The Common Room,” coffee and slow-cooked chicken in “The Boy From My Youth,” and tilapia with lemon in “If Not Happiness,” just to name a few. In what way do you think that these sensory experiences function as storytelling devices?
That was unintentional, actually. I didn’t think of that much until you brought it up! But I did try to give an accurate sense of the settings. I think it’s interesting how the small details make up for an entire narrative sometimes. Food, spices, and scent are common things to notice in Congolese culture. It’s something that we notice when we visit each other’s houses. You can tell the difference between tribes or regions based on the way they make their food, or the warmth of their homes, or how much sugar they put (if they do) in their beans. I think I’m just used to noticing that sort of thing and it comes out in my writing too – like something a Congolese protagonist might notice. It really was unconsciously done, but definitely out of habit.
Some of the most intimate – and destructive –relationships in your stories take place between women. Could you say more on this?
The only relationships I’ve ever been sure of have been my relationships with women. Rather, that is with my mother, sister, friend, cousin, teacher. But more than that, often when I hear about the relationships of women they are usually one-sided. They are usually entirely destructive. What I wanted to do with this collection was to investigate women’s relationships that go beyond the superficial – that are deep with love and pain and acceptance. Women are very intimate with each other, even when it’s not romantic. And I think that’s one of the most beautiful parts of being a woman. So much of that, to me, has been a collaborate work with another woman. From how I dress to where I get my hair done. I wanted to mimic that everyday closeness with my characters.
Are there any short story writers you feel particularly inspired or influenced by, and has that informed your own writing?
Roxane Gay is my all-time favourite short story writer. I’m also a big fan of Sheila Heti and Heather O’Neil. But I feel mostly influenced by the work of Dionne Brand and Daniel Tysdal. Old school, I read a lot of Raymond Carver and Voltaire growing up. I had a very intense Raymond Carver phase for a few years!
What was the editing experience like with Vivek? How has the experience of working with a mentor shaped your practice?
A mentor, as opposed to a professor I think, is less afraid of hurting your feelings! And perhaps, less interested in the assignment and more interested in the final product. And being new to my writing, Vivek was able to highlight some of my common mistakes or words I use way too often. Vivek definitely made my writing stronger in that sense. We also understand each other politically, so that was nice to be able to bounce back ideas with someone who shares my cultural and political understanding of life.
Vivek, what was it about Téa’s work that drew you to her and choose her stories for publication?
Vivek: In going through the submissions from the first VS. Books open call, I was looking for work that was unpredictable. This is a rare quality in art in general, but I was excited to find this in Téa’s manuscript.
What are your future plans for VS. Books?
Vivek: We recently announced Vancouver-based poet Cicely-Belle Blain as the next writer we will be publishing under the imprint in Fall 2020.
Shut Up You’re Pretty will be released through VS. Books / Arsenal Pulp Press in April 2019.