Invisble Man

IT'S LIKELY THIS SENSE OF ALIENation that keeps Everett's work so blessedly independent, that not only gives him his skills as an observer and his uniquely skewed outsider perspective but shields him from the lures of commerce and celebrity. There is little celebration of the onward march of American culture in his work, and none of pop culture. When I ask him if he has ever been interviewed on television, his eyes widen in visceral horror. Everett wants no part of the whole spectacle. "I really hate being the center of attention," he says. "I'm not a show." He would rather be left alone to write, and at times seems almost resentful that the process requires an audience. "The mere fact that I want to write fiction for a living is evidence that I'm mentally deficient," he laughs, "but I do want to participate in making truth, and I can't make it without a reader. And though I don't think about the reader, the work isn't complete until somebody reads the damn thing."

For someone who writes as much as he does, though, Everett is oddly uncompulsive about the process. He doesn't write every day, or on any disciplined schedule at all. He harbors no romantic notions about inspiration and creativity. "Maybe that's why I've produced a lot," he offers, "because I am maybe abnormally relaxed about it. It just kind of happens." It's just another thing he does, like caring for the animals, woodworking, painting or sawing wine bottles in half. And though he works hard at it, he says, "At the same time I'll leave in a second to go and play with my wife. Work always comes second to anything like that." The demands of the market — mollifying editors who demand a commercial product, showing up for readings and book signings, smiling and nodding and shaking hands — for many as much a part of writing as the act itself, don't seem to rank at all.

Later, over lunch at a Thai restaurant in Moreno Valley's "downtown" — one of many strip malls — I ask him what advice he gives his students about writing. He thinks for a moment, and I wonder if he'll warn them about the cruelties of the market, the laziness and fickleness of editors and readers alike, the hardships of creating art in a world with little use for it. He doesn't. "Write what you want to write," he begins. "You gotta have faith in what you see. It might not be a recipe for success, but it is a recipe for artistic happiness. Also," Everett laughs, "it's only books."